On The Turning Away
by Oldach's Dream
Summary: Dean would do anything to keep his little brother safe and healthy. He would provide for him, no matter what the cost. They didn’t need their father. Not today, not ever. AU, what if they’d had Max’s childhood? Angst and smarm.
1. And mesmerized as they light the flame

Title: On The Turning Away

Author: Oldach's Dream

Summary: Daddy. A label that had no sentimental meaning. A threat. 'Daddy's coming, go and hide.' Sammy hated the word daddy.

Disclaimer: I own nothing of Supernatural.

Rating: T

A/N: Okay, this is my go at the 'What if they had had Max's childhood?' challenge. I actually wanted to see this done since the episode first aired (Something that I said out loud and my friend gave me a funny look for.) And I've been thinking about it, and this just wouldn't leave me alone. So here it is.

For those of you reading 'Blackbird': don't worry, I haven't given up writing that, not by a long shot, I just felt the need to post this one as well. This probably won't even interfere with the rate at which I post chapters.

Warnings: There's obviously going to be violence and somewhat disturbing themes in this.

* * *

Chapter One: And mesmerized as they light the flame

Sammy was five the first time his father hurt him.

He'd never forget the day, because he'd been expecting it.

Sammy was a smart little kid. He had to be, with the way he'd grown up. And because, sadly enough, he was more grown up at age five than most people were at twenty.

He knew to always listen to his brother when he told him to stay upstairs with the bedroom door shut. He knew what corner of the closet to crouch down in if he heard footsteps, that didn't belong to Dean, coming up the stairs.

He knew that their daddy was a mean, mean man. That he yelled at Dean for lots of things. Sammy knew that the mean man really hated him.

Because Sammy was a smart little kid. And he knew that when their daddy shouted things like, 'It's _his _fault she's dead! It's all _his _fault!' that he was talking about him and his mommy. His daddy thought it was his fault his mommy was dead.

And Sammy knew, that when there was a pause in the yelling, the yelling that drifted upstairs and found him hiding in the closet, crying silently; it was because the big, scary man that hated him, was taking a swig from the glass bottle that he always kept at his side.

A bottle whose contents had been labeled alcohol, one night when Sammy had gathered the courage to ask Dean about it. He had told Sammy then, that alcohol was something people drank, that made their mind's fuzzy. He'd said that sometimes it could make your mind so fuzzy, that you forgot how to do anything but act mean.

That was the night, as he sat huddled on a tiny mattress with his bruised and broken older brother, that Sammy had promised himself he would never drink alcohol. He'd decided that he never wanted his mind to become that fuzzy. He never wanted to be mean like his daddy.

Sammy was a smart little kid.

He knew when to listen. He knew when to nod agreeably. He knew how to avoid the scary man that sat in the reclining chair in the living room. He knew how treat his brother's bruises and cuts. He knew how to lie. He knew a lot of things that a five year old had no real right knowing.

And that's how he knew that one day, he would be in the same room with his daddy when the mean man remembered how much he hated him. He knew that one day, Dean wouldn't be there to distract him.

To say angry things that no nine year old should be able to say, so their daddy would turn to him and forget about Sammy. Leaving him to run up to his room and hide, because that's what Dean had told him to always do.

He knew that one day he'd have to face the scary, fuzzy-minded, angry man that he thought of only vaguely as his daddy. Daddy. A label that had no sentimental meaning. A threat.

'Daddy's coming, go and hide.'

Sammy hated the word daddy.

One day, he knew, daddy would come for him, because he hated his youngest son. Hated him for something Sammy couldn't even remember.

The day would come.

Sammy was a smart kid, and he knew that much.

But that didn't mean, he'd be ready for it when it finally did.

* * *

"SAM!"

The angry voice, and the slamming of the front door, made the five year old jump. His heart rate quickening to an almost dangerous level. His hands started shaking and his breathing was labored.

Daddy wasn't supposed to be home yet. He was supposed to work until at least five every day, if not later. That way, Dean had plenty of time to get home from school.

It was a routine the child liked. As Sammy was too young yet to start school, he'd stay home alone all day. He'd make himself lunch, something that Dean had taught him how to do. He'd play by himself, making up games, coloring on pieces of paper that Dean had brought home from school, with crayons that he'd stolen for his little brother.

He'd never venture outside his room, except to get food and go to the bathroom, and he always made those trips as short as he could. He was scared of the empty house, scared of being alone. But there was nothing else he could do, except wait for his big brother to get home.

Only now his daddy was home. His daddy was home when he wasn't supposed to be, and Sammy didn't know what to do. Dean never told him what to do if he was alone with their daddy. All his instructions were geared toward what to do when all three of them were in the house together.

Neither thought that Sammy and their daddy would ever be alone together. Without Dean there.

Sammy was a smart little kid, but he didn't know what to do now. So he did the only thing he could think of. He shoved his crayons under the bed, hiding them, because he knew his daddy didn't know he had them, and he didn't want to get Dean in trouble. Then he pulled his legs up to his chest and waited, hoping that the voice wasn't really there, that it would go away.

"BOY!" It yelled again, and Sammy continued to tremble. "Answer me when I call you! Get down here! NOW!"

Sammy scrambled to his feet immediately. He was terrified, and didn't know what else to do. He made his way down the stairs as quickly and as quietly as he could. When he reached the bottom, he knew immediately that his father's mind was fuzzy.

The big man was swaying slightly back and forth, his eyes were hazy, trying to focus on the landing where his small son now stood.

"Y-y-yes, d-d-d-daddy?" He questioned shakily. Sammy had always had a slight speech problem, and it only intensified when he was scared or nervous. He was both of those things right now.

He stared for a few seconds. Sammy was trembling and his fists were clenched at his sides, his palms sweating, but he did not look away from his daddy.

The man, seemingly finished with his scrutiny, fell heavily onto the sofa behind him, resting his head in the back, closing his eyes.

Sammy let out a shaky breath, still not moving from where he stood.

"Go make me something to eat." He ordered, lifting his head up and glancing around, he found what he was looking for when he spotted the mostly empty, clear, glass bottle on the little table to his left. He reached out for it and downed the rest of it's contents in one go.

Sammy swallowed, grinding his teeth nervously. "W-w-what do y-you w-w-want me to make?" He managed.

His daddy's eyes met his for a second, and Sammy shifted backwards on one foot, sucking in a deep breath. The eyes were clouded and confused, bordering on impatience, and Sammy knew that was bad.

Yet after only a moment, they cleared and Sammy relaxed somewhat.

"Pancakes." He decided. "Need me a handover food."

Sammy didn't know what 'hangover food' meant, but he knew what pancakes were. He swallowed his fear, before speaking again.

"I-I d-don't know h-h-how to make p-panc-cakes."

He was staring at the ground, and actually jumped up and stumbled down the last stair, when the bottle his father had been holding was whipped above his head. Shattering into a zillion little pieces on the wall behind him, glass rained down around him.

"Then you better learn, real quick." His daddy hissed, before settling back down on the couch to watch the television he had just turned on.

Sammy scrambled away from the broken shards of glass, careful not to step on any, and hurried into the kitchen.

He had to blink away the tears in his eyes to clear his vision. He stood in the center of the room, taking deep breaths, trying his best to concentrate.

He thought about what his daddy had asked for. Pancakes.

Dean had made them pancakes before. One Saturday morning when their daddy had been out of town. Sammy ignored the happy memories that morning brought him, and focused instead on the memories of the cooking.

He stepped over to the cupboard on the other side of the room and looked for the box he remembered Dean using. The one with the stack of perfect looking pancakes on the front. He saw it almost immediately, as the cupboard was almost completely empty. It was on a self he couldn't reach.

He looked around for a solution to his problem, before deciding to pull a chair over from the kitchen table. He winced when the legs scratched against the tiled floor loudly.

"SHUT UP!" Came the scream from the other room, and Sammy dropped the chair in fright, making an even bigger noise. "I SAID SHUT UP!"

Sammy knew his daddy didn't like loud noises when his mind was fuzzy, or when he'd just woken up from having a fuzzy mind. Especially then.

So Sammy picked up the chair, lifting it as much as his tiny, five year old body could manage, and moved it to the cupboard as quietly as he could. He tried to set it down quietly too, but it slipped from his grasp and fell on it's legs to the floor, with a loud thunk.

He held his breath and counted slowly to ten. When no more shouts erupted from the living room, he knew his daddy must not have heard him that time.

So he climbed onto the chair, and managed to grab the box of pancake mix. He had it down, and sitting at the table, as he stared at the back. Their were various words and pictures, but Sammy could barely read, and he had no real comprehension as to what the box told him to do.

Still, he started making the breakfast food, following the instructions as best he could.

Fifteen minutes later, after being as silent and precise as he could in following the instructions he could only halfway comprehend, he had a skillet on the stove, and was turning the knob.

Blue flames erupted on the burner, but Sammy ignored them, focusing instead on pancake mixture he had concocted. He poured it into the skillet and watched as the lumpy mess of eggs, water, oil and dry mix sizzled away.

He knew, after a few minutes, that he had done something wrong. The slushy mixture was not turning golden brown like the picture on the box. It was crackling and moving on its own. Sammy watched, not knowing what to do.

He glanced at the clock on the microwave when a particularly dry lump started to turn red. The neon numbers read 2:17, and Sammy knew that Dean would not be getting home from school in time to help him. Which brought tears to his eyes, because he was desperate, and he needed his big brother to help him.

The dry lump was getting more red and more threatening looking with each passing second, and Sammy couldn't tear his watery eyes away from it. Until it finally bust into flames and a high-pitched scream tore itself, unbidden, from the five year old's throat.

He scampered away from the heat of the fire, only to find himself backed into something even scarier.

"What in the hell is going on!" The man shouted, roughly pushing his son away from him, his blurry eyes taking in the kitchen.

It was only when Sammy followed his gaze, did he realize what a mess he had made while attempting to cook the pancakes. When he added all of that mess to the sight of the fire still dancing in the skillet, the little boy started to tremble again.

"I-I-I-I..." he started, but the mean man cut him off.

"You what!" His speech was slurred, but Sammy could hear the anger loud and clear. "Were trying to kill me! The same way you killed your mother!"

"N-n-n-no." He stammered, trying to back away.

His daddy's arm came out and grabbed his shoulder roughly, turning him until he was forced to stare at the flames, which were growing bigger with each passing second.

The fingers digging harshly into his shoulder, squeezing until he could feel his bones rubbing together, was not enough to distract him from his fear. And the tears in his eyes, making their way down his cheeks in steady trails, they were not enough to block out the vision of the all consuming flames.

"Do you see what you did!" He said gruffly. "You started another fire!"

"I-I-I'm s-s-sorry." He sobbed. "I-I...d-didn't mean t-to!"

His daddy just tightened his grip, and pulled him closer to the jumping flames. Sammy fought and pulled against him as hard as he could, but he was no match for the grown man. He was sobbing openly by the time his daddy had him held next to the fire.

"Do you like the fire?" He asked in a low growl. "DO YOU LIKE THE FIRE!" He screamed when he got no response.

"N-n-no." He sobbed. He could think nothing, except, I want Dean. I want Dean. He would have screamed out his name, if he thought for a second that it would make his big brother appear.

"I think you do." His voice was low and frightening again. "Touch it!" He demanded. "Touch the fire you little brat!"

He grabbed a hold of his son's little wrist with his free hand and shoved it into the very tip of the flames. Sammy screamed out in pain, even though it didn't hurt exactly. It actually felt really cold, like sticking his hand in freezing water. But still he knew it was supposed to hurt.

And as soon as his daddy let go of his hand and Sammy ripped it out of the flames, it did. His hand throbbed where the fire had touched him, and he was now sobbing uncontrollably.

"Oh, shut up!" His daddy barked harshly. "It barely touched you." Which might have been true, but it sure didn't feel that way to the little child.

After a moment longer, John dropped his son to the floor, and reached out, turning off the burner as Sammy had been too scared to do when the fire had started. The young boy sat on the floor, muffling his crying as much as he could, and cradling his injured arm to his chest.

His daddy then threw a towel, which had been draped over the back of one of the chairs, over the flames, making them cease immediately.

The older man then stumbled slightly, moving in his son's direction, only to shove him out of the way harshly with his foot. Sam skidded into the leg of the table, and stayed there, watching his as his dad proceed to the fridge, and grabbed a beer.

He popped it open and took a long drink. When he lowered it, he looked from his son, to the mess of the kitchen and back to Sammy, who was still trembling and trying not to muffle his sobs.

"Suck it up." His words were harsh, but low and mumbled, and Sammy could almost breath again.

He nodded vigorously and watched as his daddy kept staring. Until he shook his head slightly and stumbled back into the living room. Sammy heard a thud as he collapsed again on the couch.

He waited, curled up in a shivering ball in the kitchen floor, no longer crying, he was focused intently on the sounds of the other room. Until he heard his daddy's loud snores start up. As soon as he heard them, he began counting. Once he got to two-hundred, he decided it was safe to move.

He stood on shaky little legs and tip-toed through the kitchen and back to the living room and up the stairs, paying special attention to the glass still littered all over the small platform. His inured arm was still cradled to his chest, and he had to stop and hold his breath when his dad's giant form rolled over suddenly.

Only when it settled down again and continued the steady stream of loud snores, did he dare to continue moving. He made his way up the stairs and into the room that he and Dean shared. There were two beds, but on most nights the brothers shared one.

Now, Sammy crawled into the one they had shared the night before. The rumpled sheets and flattened pillows still smelled like Dean, and Sammy took comfort in the safety that smell brought him.

He curled up beneath the blankets, and hissed when his hand brushed against the sheet slightly. He finally mustered the courage to look down at his injury. The places the fire had gotten to were bright pink, and hurt when anything came into contact with them.

So he adjusted himself so that that part of his hand was facing up. Finally, when he could hold them back no longer, he let his great wailing sobs continue. Burying his head in the pillow, just incase his daddy heard him. He cried and cried, until he was too exhausted to cry any longer.

He fell into a fitful sleep, wishing all the time, that Dean would hurry up and get home.

He needed his big brother like he never had before.

* * *

TBC...

Well, if you guys are interested anyway.

Review and let me know if I should keep going!


	2. Where the speechless unite

Title: On The Turning Away

Author: Oldach's Dream

Summary: He thought bitterly that, if their dad had to hurt them the way he did, he should at least supply the proper first aid supplies the boys would need to deal with his anger and drinking issues.

Disclaimer: I own nothing of Supernatural.

Rating: T

A/N: Wanna know a secret? I really have no idea where I'm going with this. I mean, I could end it after this chapter...but I really don't want to. I have some ideas of what I want to do...but they all kinda come later...

So, if you have any suggestions, I'd really love to hear them. Seriously, anything you have to offer, just include it in a review and I'll consider adding it to the plot. That is, if the general consensus is that I should continue. You're gonna have to let me know.

* * *

Chapter Two: Where the speechless unite

Dean really didn't understand what 'normal' meant. He'd heard the word used in everyday conversation, around school. By teachers and counselors.

It was funny, at the beginning of every school year, so far in his life, Dean, and every other kid in his class, they all had to take turns talking to a counselor.

They'd get taken into this big, comfortable office. The adult, and it was someone different each year, would ask you if you wanted any candy, or to hold one of their 'comfort' stuffed animals.

Dean always said no to the animal, he was a big kid and didn't need any stupid stuffed animal, but often took the candy. Sometimes he'd even manage to shove some in his pocket for Sammy. He was always thinking of his little brother.

That was normal.

Then the counselor would ask him questions.

_What are your parents like?_

_Do you get along alright?_

_Do you fight sometimes?_

_About what?_

_Do you eat meals together?_

_Are they nice?_

_Are they normal?_

Dean didn't know what normal meant. So that first year, he'd answered honestly.

_No, me and my father don't really get along. He yells a lot, and hits me sometimes. I'm scared of him. But more scared for my little brother than for me. Sammy's so young. He'd get really hurt if daddy decided to hit him like he hits me sometimes._

Dean had said it all so factually. With a tiny frown and concentrated expression, hoping he was getting the answers right. And when the adult, it had been a graying old man, he remembered, hadn't answered after a few moments, Dean spoke in a nervous tone.

_Is that normal? _He'd asked.

He'd gotten a social worker at his house the next day and a solid two hours of his dad, who had been very irritated, which was a nice way of saying hung over, talking to said social worker. Telling her that, ever since Mary's death, his eldest son had had a lying complex. He wanted to get attention. Felt overshadowed by the grief losing his mother had caused the family and the care that his two-year-old brother demanded.

Dean, who had been silently listening up until that point, had wanted to protest there. He wasn't jealous of Sammy. He took better care of Sammy than his dad did. He loved his little brother too much to ever lie to him, or about him.

He wanted to say all this. But something in his father's gaze had stopped him. Something scary and hard. Unfeeling and unforgiving. Something that had manifested itself in the form of a clenched fist, once the social services lady was convinced that the school had been wrong.

She was out the door, waving happily to John from her shiny, silver car. Starting the engine and driving away. Leaving Dean unprotected and alone for the worst beating his father had ever graced him with.

He was left bloody and bruised. Crying and whimpering, despite his father's shouts and demands that he grow up and act like a man.

That was the first night Sammy and Dean had shared a bed. Up until that point, Sammy was still little enough to sleep in his crib, across the room from Dean, safe and sound in his own little baby world.

That night though, Sammy had managed to crawl out of his own bed, over the railings and to Dean's side of the bedroom. Sammy could barely string together full sentences yet, but he managed to sense that his brother was hurt badly and needed him.

Dean had taken the comfort offered, and swore that he would never let his baby brother be hurt by their dad the same way he just had been. He swore to himself that he'd protect him forever.

He'd also learned, after that night, how to lie. Every year, He told the counselors that he was fine, and that his home life was normal.

He still didn't fully understand what normal meant, what other people defined it as; but he had figured out that it wasn't an abusive, alcoholic father. So he worked that part out of his yearly evaluation.

It was a quick 'My mom died years ago. My father works a lot to support us. I'm really close with my little brother.' And he was out the door. Rewarded with a handful of candy. Given a check mark and a smiley face on whatever records they kept filed away on him.

No one knew what really went on in the Winchester home. No one wanted to get involved. No one cared. Dean didn't care that they didn't care. He didn't need any adults making things worse again.

He had his little brother. They had each other. And as long as Dean could protect him, everything would be fine. They would be fine.

Then, one day, he came home from school and he saw his father's car in the driveway when it normally shouldn't be. He walked through the front door, and heard the, somehow angry and frightening sounding, snores coming from the living room couch. He smelled the fire and the leftover smoke of something that had been burning.

He walked towards the stairs that led up to the bedrooms cautiously, and cringed when the broken glass crunched beneath his worn out tennis shoes. His heart began beating a little faster and he swallowed thickly.

He wanted to tell himself that he was wrong, that this wasn't really happening. It was a bad dream, a nightmare. He'd wake up any minute, Sammy cuddled up at his side, safe and sound. But it was no use, he already knew the truth. He continued climbing the stairs to his and Sammy's bedroom, chewing on his lip harshly.

It had been another regular day, a normal day for him. Until he smelled the smoke, the burning. The remainders of death and destruction. Then it had turned into the day that he had failed his little brother.

The day he had let him get hurt.

* * *

"Sammy?" Dean called as soon as he had shut the bedroom door firmly behind him. Hating, for the millionth time in his life, that it didn't come equipped with a lock.

Sammy was curled up under the comforter when Dean approached him. He could tell by the steady breathing that his brother was indeed asleep. Dean quickly scanned his little brother's body, checking for injury.

It didn't take him long to find the burn on his hand. Dean swallowed thickly and blinked back tears. He hated his father.

Never before had he felt anything like this. This rage burning through him, unchecked. He had been hurt by his father so many times before, and each time, he told himself that he hated the man. But he had never felt it entirely, there was always a tiny sliver of doubt. Something his brain chased away and ignored. A childish need to impress his father, to make him proud.

It was gone now, and felt only blind hatred. His father had hurt his baby brother. He hurt Sammy. Any lingering remains of childhood innocence or acceptance that Dean might have sill possessed were gone. Burned away by the injury on Sammy hand.

The five-year-old boy picked that moment to roll over and crack his eyes slightly. All of his hatred revelations to a sudden back seat as he focused on his little brother. Taking care of him would always be the most important thing.

Dean made the mistake of thinking that Sammy was fully coherent, because his eyes were opening, and he reached out to touch his shoulder lightly. As soon as he did so, Sammy jumped and pulled himself away from the touch. Whimpering slightly as he curled himself into a ball.

Dean swallowed again, his voice was thick when he spoke. "It's okay Sammy, it's me, it's Dean." He was repeating the comforting phrases he always soothed his little brother with he woke up from a nightmare.

"Dean?" He croaked, sounding desperate.

"It's me, buddy." He assured again. He was standing flush up against the mattress now, his stomach pressed against it tightly, but he reached out hesitantly.

"Dean," Sam said, only more forcefully, as he launched himself at his big brother.

Dean was a little taken aback, but quickly encircled his arms around his brother. Sam was still half on the bed, so Dean had to hold the majority of his weight, to keep him from falling off. Lucky for him, Sammy had always been a small kid. Round for his size, but small in general.

"You're okay," he soothed, rubbing circles on Sammy's back with one hand, his chin was resting on his head.

He felt Sammy's tears bleed through his shirt. He tightened his grip and held on to his brother for dear life. The hug was desperate, because both of them needed each other. Was petrified of the thought of losing each other. They were all they had.

"Dean," the younger boy spoke after a few more moments.

"Yeah?"

"My hand really hurts." He said it almost fearfully and when Dean tried to pull back slightly to gauge the injury better, Sammy fisted the back of his t-shirt with his good hand harshly and would not let him go.

"I know it does, kiddo." Dean tried to reason with him. "And I gotta look at it, alright?"

It Sammy a few minutes of shallow, barely controlled breathing, but finally he nodded affirmatively and let Dean pull away. Sam sat perched on the side of the bed, Dean standing as close as he could.

Sammy lifted his good hand to wipe away his tears, and held the burned one out to his brother. He saw Dean cringe.

"Is it bad?" He asked, sounding young and innocent. A little kid. Which he was. It was just hard for Dean to remember that sometimes.

"It's not too bad," he said, and it was the truth, he simply hated seeing his little brother in any type of pain. "It'll hurt for a little while, then you'll get a blister. It's just really important that you don't pop the blister, 'cause that'll make it hurt again."

"Okay." He nodded, listening intently. The worst of the burn was in the outside of his hand, the side of his palm, circling over to the back of it. It reached to about the knuckle of his middle finger.

"I'm gonna go in the bathroom and get a cold washcloth to put on it. It's the only thing that'll make the hurt go away a little, okay?" Dean knew that wasn't entirely true, there were burn creams that would probably work wonders for his brother's hand, but there was no way they had any in their home.

He thought bitterly that, if their dad had to hurt them the way he did, he should at least supply the proper first aid supplies the boys would need to deal with his anger and drinking issues.

Sam hesitated and Dean waited, speaking again when he wouldn't meet his eyes. "I'll just be gone a second, Sammy." He assured, knowing his brother wouldn't want to be alone. "Right across the hall and back. You won't even know I'm gone." He smiled, trying to act a lot stronger than he felt.

"What if daddy wakes up?" His voice was tearful and pleading.

Dean opened his mouth to tell Sammy that there was no way he would wake up, and that he would be safe. Then he glanced down at his brother's injury and remembered the bruises that still traced his own ribs from a few nights before.

"If you hear him, hide in the closet like you always do, and I'll hide too, I promise." And he would, as long as the older man didn't start in on Sammy, Dean had no problem staying hidden.

"Okay," Sam finally gave in. "But hurry."

Dean nodded and did as he was told. He silently made his way across the bedroom and out the door, scurrying across the hallway and into the bathroom. He chased away his own fear of his father, picturing Sammy, hurt and vulnerable, waiting for him, only a few feet away. It was enough to add even more speed and haste to his silent movements.

He re-entered the bedroom mere minutes later, placing everything he had retrieved on the bedside table. He was back standing in front of Sammy again, and everything was a little bit better.

Dean raised the dripping, cold cloth and placed it on his injury. Sammy immediately jerked away, but Dean held onto him. Securing his hurt hand in both of his. "Shhhh," he said gently. "It'll make it better in a minute."

And that was all it took for the initial pain to fade to a relieving cooling sensation. "It helped." Sam said quietly.

"Told ya." Dean smirked softly. He showed Sammy how to hold the cloth in place and proceeded to start fiddling with the other things he had fetched from the bathroom.

He held out a little white pill and a glass of water, Sam eyed both curiously.

"It's an aspirin." Dean explained. "It makes pain go away."

"Like the headaches dad gets when he drinks too much?" Sam asked innocently and Dean was struck suddenly with how sad it was that he knew that. That either of them did.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "But it helps other things too."

Sam nodded and picked the small pill out of his brother's hand.

"Put it in your mouth then swallow it with a big sip of water." Dean instructed and Sam followed his directions. Trust in his big brother out weighing any fear or uncertainty that taking the medicine might cause.

"There you go." Dean took the glass away from Sam when he finished with a satisfying 'ahh' "Not bad, right?"

Sam shook his head and Dean smiled again. Now that Sammy was all taken care of, he crawled up onto the bed with him. He settled himself so that the two boys were sitting cross-legged across from each other, their knees touching.

"You wanna tell me what happened today?" Dean asked the younger boy gently. The way Sammy's head ducked to the side and he started chewing the inside of his lip, it made Dean feel even guiltier than he had before.

"Daddy. He came home early..."

Sammy's story lasted almost half an hour. Violent sobs interrupting him often, but he didn't stop until everything about that afternoon was revealed.

"I-I-I d-d-didn't mean t-t-o make him m-mad." He finally finished, and Dean was crying himself.

He hated his father. God, he hated his father so much.

By now, Sammy was half curled up on Dean's lap, having crawled over to his side for comfort halfway through the duration of the story.

"W-w-w-hy..." Sammy cried, trying to calm his great gulping sobs.

"What?" Dean asked, distracted with the task of trying to calm his brother.

"D-d-daddy?" He cried. "W-hy's he so m-mean?"

Dean gulped. It was a question he had been struggling with since he had learned that his father's behavior towards his sons wasn't normal. He was forced to remember that this was the first time Sammy had experienced their father's cruelty first hand.

"I..." He wouldn't lie to Sammy. He couldn't. But he hated the answer he had to give him. "I don't know. I really don't know, Sammy."

Sammy just continued to cry, and Dean didn't stop him. Letting the tears fall, soaking into his side. He held onto Sam tight. Pulling him down with him, so that they were both laying down on the bed.

Sammy's cries didn't take long to fade into harsh hiccups, followed then by shallow, almost sobs.

This is where Dean stepped in. Sammy's head was beneath his chin and Dean's arm was around his waist, his hand was on his back and he started rubbing circles, as he had before.

"Take deep breaths, Sammy." Dean instructed, doing so himself. "In and out. Like me."

The brother's tuned their breathing until Sammy was finally calm. He relaxed completely into Dean, falling asleep once again.

Dean hoped that Sammy would sleep good tonight. But Dean knew, sadly, that he probably wouldn't. Sammy was prone to night terrors. Which was a phrase one of his teachers had used to describe really bad nightmares. Which Sammy had. Almost every night.

Night terrors.

It was appropriate. Their life was terrifying enough.

Dean just sighed, pulling his baby brother closer still. He couldn't stop Sammy's subconscious from attacking him. He couldn't protect him from the monster they were forced to call dad. He couldn't erase the past or change their lives.

The only option the Winchester brother's had, was to be there, and to deal with all of it.

Together.

* * *

TBC...

A/N: Howdy folks.

You enjoying the story? Let me know.

And remember, any ideas, please share.


	3. Or you’ll find that you’re joining in

Title: On The Turning Away

Author: Oldach's Dream

Summary: John Winchester was almost a mere memory in his son's lives. He had been reduced to cash in stained envelope every month, a forged signature on school papers, a formality.

Disclaimer: I own nothing of Supernatural.

Rating: T

A/N: First: Yeah, I know I haven't posted in a while. I've been annoyingly busy and feeling oddly lazy. If you couldn't guess, that's a horrible combination. I need to update my other story as well, but hey, I got to this one first.

Second: I got quite a few suggestions for plot lines. Thanks to all of those who made suggestions. I won't be able to work in all of them, (I did a time jump), but I might work some in as flashbacks later (Ice Cube 1, I especially liked your idea - If I make anything a flask back, it'll be that) I do have a slightly better idea as to what I'm doing now, though.

Last but not least... I'm officially making this an AU. There will be **no **Supernatural storyline in here at all. I'm sorry if that makes you sad, but it's the only way I'm gonna be able to do what I want. In fact, I'm taking the focus slightly off the 'Max's childhood' aspect of it (for now), and focusing more in them just having a normal life. Well...sorta.

And now that I'm done blambering...

* * *

Chapter Three: Or you'll find that you're joining in

Five years had passed, and Sammy could still remember that day. Everything about it. From the smell of his father's alcohol tainted breath, to the sound of the crackling flames. The fear, remorse, sadness, guilt, anger, desperation...it was all there. And there it would remain. Locked in the confines of his memory. The only physical reminder was the faded scar on his hand.

Sam was eleven years old now, and while he was not the happy go lucky little kid he should be, his life was a far cry from what it had been back then. The circumstances surrounding his notably improved life were simple, almost too simple.

John Winchester had come home early that day, five, nearly six, years ago, because he had been fired from his job. If he ever wanted lay blame for his horrific behavior of that day on something, the news of that could have provided him with an, albeit faulty and pathetic, excuse. He never used it though, he didn't need bad news to drown his sorrows in alcohol. And he certainly didn't need an excuse to act like a monster.

Sam had always known that.

After that night, things had stayed so quiet and uneventful, Dean had started to grow anxious, Sam hadn't understood at the time. Their dad would disappear all day, he'd come home later than he did when he _had _a job, and he more or less left his sons alone. To Sam, that was perfection. But Dean kept saying that it only meant something was coming.

Two weeks later, it did. John walked into Sam and Dean's room one night, causing both boys to tense and freeze in their actions. Neither had heard him coming, for he hadn't been stumbling or swearing as he normally did when he was intoxicated. Dean had positioned himself in front of Sammy, and the smaller boy held his breath.

What happened next wasn't what either had been expecting. It was certainly less painful than they had expected, anyway.

_"Dean," he'd grunted. The nine year old gulped before meeting his father's eyes. "Do you remember how to mail letters?"_

_The question left him dumbfounded for a few seconds. A moment too long, it seemed, as John barked again._

_"Well!"_

_Dean jumped slightly, and Sammy grabbed onto the back of his t-shirt, as the elder brother nodded and tried to respond without sounding scared. "Yeah, I do."_

_"Good," John nodded. "I got a new job, and I'll be going out of town for the rest of the month. I want you to mail the bills in two weeks. You understand?"_

_Dean nodded and Sammy did too, simply because he was afraid not to. Just incase the scary man wanted a response out of him as well._

_"Alright," he nodded himself. "They're on the counter. They're already sealed. Now, I ain't got enough cash just laying around to deal with a screw up, so you better not forget about it, or loose them or nothing', you hear me?"_

_Dean nodded again. "Yes, sir."_

_"You'll regret it if you do." His voice was low, and as threatening as he intended it to be._

_"I won't." Dean assured him. "I promise."_

_John set him with a hard glare for a few moments. Seemingly challenging his oldest son, daring him to look away. Dean didn't flinch, and after what felt like an eternity to the five year old, their dad made his way out of the room once again. _

_"Dean?" Sam questioned minutes later, when his brother hadn't yet moved._

_"Yeah?" He finally shook himself out of the trance he'd been in._

_Sammy couldn't think of anything to say, he'd only wanted his brother to move, make a noise, to assure him that he was alright. _

_"Sammy?" Dean questioned, turning to face his little brother, who was now biting his lip. "Are you okay?"_

_"Is daddy going away for good?" He hadn't planned on asking the question, but once it was out, he realized that he wanted to know. _

_"No," Dean shook his, sounding regretful. "He's just got a new job."_

_"I know," Sammy had heard him say that. "But he told you to pay the bills, doesn't that mean he's going away for a long time?"_

_The concept of monthly bills was a hard one for a five year old to grasp. _

_"For a while." Dean nodded._

_"So..." Sammy paused. "So, it'll just be me and you?"_

_"Yeah," Dean sounded oddly fearful. "Are you okay with that?"_

_Sammy nodded fervently. "Yeah." _

_He launched himself at his older brother so hard that Dean gasped as the wind was knocked out of him, and they both fell back onto the floor. "I love you Dean. I wanna stay with you forever. I want daddy to go away."_

_Something in Dean's chest swelled as he hugged Sammy back. A mixture of protectiveness and something else he couldn't identify._

_"I love you too, little brother." He whispered into Sam's shoulder. "I love you so much." Then, after a few beats of silence, so quiet it could barely be heard, "I want daddy to go away too."_

Five years later, and the boys had practically gotten their wish. John Winchester was a ghost of a father. Showing up less and less over the years. Month long trips expanded to six or seven weeks, then those grew to three or four months. Until it got to the point where John Winchester was almost a mere memory in his son's lives. He had been reduced to cash in stained envelope every month, a forged signature on school papers, a formality.

Dean was now fourteen. Almost fifteen, and he took better care of his brother, than John ever had. It would be a year before he'd belegally allowedto get a job, and make some actual money. So they wouldn't have to live off the measly pocket change left over from the money they got from their dad, after they paid the bills.

Sammy had no idea how hard it was for Dean to budget the money they had. He had no clue how stressful it could be to worry about whether or not they'd get to eat that week. How nerve wracking it was to have to steal food just so they wouldn't go hungry.

How hard it was to work around the school system when someone wanted to talk to their father. Dean knew if anyone ever found out about how they lived, they'd be shipped off to foster care. And that meant separating them, and there was no way in hell that Dean would let that happen.

No, Sammy had no clue about any of the things his big brother wrestled with daily. Because, for as fast as Sam had grown up, Dean had grown up faster. And the teenager was now dead set on making sure that the rest of Sammy's childhood was as normal as possible.

If that meant learning how to steal and lie and budget money and out smart every adult he ever came into contact with, then so be it. Their dad was truck driver, they'd found out, and he was away almost ten months out of the year, on average. Dean thought it was kind of sad that he hated his sons that much, but he never let Sam onto those feelings.

Sam could still remember what life with their dad had been like after Mary had died, and it was something neither boy ever wanted to re-live. Dean just happened to remember life before the fire as well, the mother and the father that had loved him. He thought sometimes that, that version of his father might still exist somewhere. Hidden beneath the shell of a man John Winchester had become.

But it was a false hope. He was too jaded to believe otherwise. The man that Dean held in his memories, the one he had played football with in the backyard, the person who had handed him his baby brother to run away with and protect the night their mother died, that man was gone. Dead.

Sam had never known anyone but the monster version of his father. Which was why Dean could never explain his feelings about the man to his little brother. He couldn't tell him that sometimes, all he wanted was for his real dad to come home and help him.

He couldn't let Sammy know that sometimes he hated the life he was trapped in. Because for everything that he felt about his life, resentment towards his little brother was never, and would never be, one of those things.

Sammy was all he had. And he hoped, all he needed.

And he'd do anything for him.

* * *

"Is high school a lot different from middle school?" Sam asked one morning, pushing his cheerios around with his spoon.

Dean looked up from his own breakfast and studied his little brother, not used to such an, even semi-serious, question from the younger boy this early in the morning.

"Why do ya ask?" He inquired lightly.

Sam shrugged and went back to eating his cereal. It was only a few moments before he spoke again. "It's just...some kids in math yesterday were talking about how much different it was. How you got to do more. Can you really get away with like, fighting, and not going to class?"

Dean chuckled at the curious look that Sam was sporting. Sometimes he forgot how young Sam still was. How much their father's behavior hadn't affected certain things in his life. That was something Dean would always be grateful for. Something he strived to protect.

"Sometimes." He admitted. "You can get away with a lot of stuff. But if you get caught, you get suspended, or a detention or something."

"So, don't get caught?" Sam asked innocently, but Dean saw the smirk he was sporting.

"Exactly." Dean agreed. "Never get caught."

"So, if I wanted to say, skip school all day and not tell you, I could, as long as I didn't get in trouble?" Sam had stopped smiling. His expression was now concentrated and thoughtful.

Dean narrowed his eyes and studied his brother carefully. "Did you skip school?"

"Would it matter if I did?" Sam asked.

Dean didn't really know how to respond. A situation like this had never arose before, and he found his insides clenching slightly.

"I thought we weren't supposed to lie to each other." Sammy said, before Dean had a chance to think of something to say.

"We're not." The older boy responded immediately. They had agreed on one rule years ago; and that was it.

"Then how come you didn't tell me you cut class?" Sam's question caught Dean off guard. The older brother hadn't even considered that that was what this conversation would be about.

"How'd you..." Sam was a smart kid, he always had been, but this was bordering on untapped psychic abilities.

"The school called a few days ago." He answered.

"Is that why you've been in a weird mood?" Dean had figured Sam's recent attitude was compliments of the drunken message their dad had left them the week before, informing them that he would be gone a few extra weeks.

News of that nature usually made both boys sigh in relief and celebrate their prolonged freedom. It was the drunken ramblings about how pathetic both his kids were and how much he hated working to have to support a bunch of ungrateful brats, that Dean figured Sam was upset over.

"I haven't been in a weird mood." Sam argued.

"You have to," Dean said. "Bordering on bitchy, actually."

"Jerk." Sam shot. "You're the one who lied to me."

"I didn't lie." Dean protested at once. He looked at his little brother's disbelieving expression and sighed. "I didn't lie, exactly, Sam, I just didn't tell you something."

The younger brother fixed him with a hard glare. "What were you doing?" He asked after a few minutes. "While you were skipping."

"Nothing," Dean shrugged.

"Nothing?" Sam questioned disbelievingly. "You just skipped school for no reason?"

Dean thought back to that day. "Yeah," he said. "I did."

"Why are you lying?"

"I'm not." He insisted.

Sammy stared for a moment. The look on his face was unreadable and it made Dean nervous. He hadn't regretted his decision to cut class until just now. The guy's he'd been with that day had assured him that his teachers probably wouldn't notice his absence. Or wouldn't care about it if they did. They'd warned him that there might be a call to his house, but since it would just be an automatic voice recording, it didn't matter if he hung up on it.

A few days after it had happened, no one had called and he figured he was home free. He knew what he had done that day was bad. Pathetically, horribly bad, but he refused to tell Sammy about it. He'd rather have his brother think he'd skipped school for no reason. Hell, anything was better than his real excuse.

"Whatever, Dean." Sam finally said, sounding fed up. He stood, carrying his bowl to the sink, and rinsing it.

"Sammy..." Dean tried.

"No, forget it." The eleven year old shrugged. "You skipped school for no reason and lied to me about it. Not a big deal."

"Sam..." He started again.

"I'm gonna be late," he grabbed his book bag from the corner of the kitchen and slung it over his shoulder. He managed, with every movement, to avoid Dean's gaze.

"We'll talk about this later." Dean tried to sound firm as he called out to his brother. But his voice had a notable desperate tinge to it.

Sam simply mumbled, "Sure," before exiting the kitchen and slamming his way through the front door.

Dean waited until he was sure Sam was gone, before dropping his head to the table and growling in frustration.

"Damn it!" He shouted out loud, head snapping up. He ran his hands angrily through his hair, and barely managed to stop himself from kicking one of the wooden chairs.

This wasn't supposed to happen!

No one else had found out about the events of that day nearly a week ago, why would Sammy? It was ridicules really, that no one else had found out about it. No teachers, principles, none of he other's guy's parents. No one had a freaking clue as to what went on that day, but Sammy somehow managed to figure out that something was up.

The harsh, shrill ringing of the telephone cut off any more of his angry contemplations. Dean considered just letting it ring and listening to the message, especially when he thought that it could be their dad again. But he hated not answering the phone, just incase it was important.

So he stood up and crossed the room, to where the phone sat on the counter that served as part of the wall between the kitchen and living room.

"Hello?"

"Dude," The voice of Chance, one of the guys from the skip day, was immediately recognizable. "You comin' today or what?"

"To school?" Dean asked stupidly, not understanding what he was asking and still reeling from his confrontation with his little brother.

"No, dip-shit, Alan got us another job."

Dean's insides froze. "Uhh..."

"Don't wuss out on me now, I already told him you were in."

"What!" Dean exclaimed. "Why would you do that? You didn't even talk to me about it."

"You seemed pretty eager last time." Chance argued, and Dean remembered just how much this guy's attitude could resemble that of a pit-bull.

"Yeah, well, I was desperate last time." Dean said, voice bordering on attempted casual. "I don't need anything now."

"Your share this time would be about two hundred bucks." Chance informed him. "You tellin' me you're just gonna walk away from that?"

Dean was biting his lip and his eyes were darting back and forth, they happened to land on his half empty bowl of cereal. It was the last of the box, and the milk was a day away from expiring. Their father's usual monthly check was late and Dean had almost no money after paying the bills the week before.

Sammy had switched from elementary school to middle school at the start of the last term. For his little brother this meant a different setting, and hopefully classes that would actually challenge him. He'd intellectually out grown elementry school years ago.

While Dean was proud of his brother's intelligence, this switch for him, meant no more free lunches. His little brother now required ten dollars a week for meals in the cafeteria, and it was adding up. Dean himself had never bought lunch at school when he'd been Sam's age, his father had never given him money. But Dean had also been a loner throughout most of his school career thus far.

He hated the thought of Sam facing any type of ridicule for the clothes he wore or anything that indicated his lack of money. Dean had beat up enough bullies in Sam's honor to last them both a lifetime.

"Hey!" Chance's annoyed shout cut off his thoughts. "Stop zoning. I need an answer, are you in or not?"

Dean thought once more of Sammy and their finical situation. If it were just him it would be different, but Sam needed him.

"Yeah," he finally said, almost choking on the word. "I'll be there. Same place as last time?"

"Yup," Chance now sounded thoroughly pleased with himself. "In an hour. Knock twice once you get there. And don't be late."

"Alright." And that was the end of their conversation.

Dean set the phone down on the hook and swallowed. His knees felt shaky and his stomach was in knots, but beneath in nerves was a vague sense of pride, or at least relief.

What he was doing may not be great and honorable. Hell, it wasn't even legal. But he was providing for his little brother. He was making sure that their tiny, two person family, was taken care of.

And that was the best he could do.

* * *

TBC... 

Review and Tell me what you thought! Please? It'll inspire me.


	4. Light is changing to shadow

Title: On The Turning Away

Author: Oldach's Dream

Summary: Dean would do anything to keep his little brother safe and healthy. He would provide for him, no matter what the cost. They didn't need their father. Not today, not ever. AU, what if they'd had Max's childhood?

Disclaimer: I own nothing of Supernatural.

Rating: T

A/N: Okay, I know my last chapter left off in kind of a weird place, so I wanted to get this out soon, so no one looses interest. I know it took kind of an odd turn that some may not like, but I'm trying to tell of story of brotherly love. Found in a certain situation, the boys would do anything for each other. That's what I'm trying to get across. That brotherly love. I think that's what all the stories about them try to get across. That's why we love them so much. At least, that's why I do.

This chapter is long, but it explains everything. Please drop me a line and let me know how you think I'm doing with this. I'd greatly appreciate it. Seriously, I really would:)

* * *

Chapter Four: Light is changing to shadow

_**Two Weeks Earlier**_

Dean had just managed to close his eyes a few moments ago. His extreme exhaustion carried him quickly to that half asleep, half awake place that was always so very peaceful. He was bordering on the edge of consciousness, waiting for sleep to consume him entirely, when a harsh and pain filled moan brought him back to the reality of his bedroom.

"Sammy..." he called out lightly, rolling over to get a better look at his brother's bed. He could barely make out the younger boy's form. It was curled so tightly around itself, making him appear no bigger than a pillow.

He coughed and rolled over, dangerously close to the edge of the bed. Dean pulled himself into a sitting position, his heavy limbs protesting every move, and being affectively ignored by the person to whom they were attached.

"Sam..."

"I think I'm gonna be sick again." The younger boy cut him off, and no sooner were the words out of his mouth, did he dart out of the bed and stumble his way to the bathroom. Reaching the toilet, apparently, just in time to effectively empty the contents of his stomach for the fourth time that night. And yes, Dean was keeping a running count.

The vomiting was actually probably just a side affect of the intense migraine Sam had. That and the stomach cramps probably all stemmed from the fever he'd had for the last two days. The one that had been getting steadily worse for the last two days.

Dean made his way to the bathroom after his baby brother on unsteady feet. Two days Sam had been sick. Two days that Dean had been staying up with him all night, sitting next to him on the bed, rubbing his back and adjusting the damp washcloth on his head. Praying for his brother to recover quickly.

Dean knocked on the frame of the door, as Sam hadn't bothered to shut the door.

"Hey you," he called lightly, attempting casual. Sam's head was resting on the cool porcelain of the toilet bowl. "You okay in there?"

"I feel bad," the younger boy moaned, effectively breaking Dean's heart, and reminding him frighteningly of the scared little kid that Sammy used to be.

His little brother had grown so much since their father had more or less left him in Dean's care. The elder brother liked to think that he was at least partially responsible for Sam's changed attitude, but the truth is, he would never know for sure. All he could do was continue to take care of him as best he could.

And right now, it was killing him that he could do nothing to take away his little brother's pain. It reminded him of the times his father hurt him. How scared he sounded right now, it was the same tone he always had on those occasions when he was forced to face their father.

Dean swallowed his own feelings of helplessness and moved closer to the younger boy, crouching down next to him on the floor.

"Does your head still hurt?" He asked, hoping that the migraine would have receded at least somewhat.

Sam just nodded, and swallowed thickly. "Can you..." he trailed off, closing his eyes painfully.

"What Sammy, what do you need?" Dean had been doing his best to care for his little brother, but Sammy very rarely asked for anything. And he would only tell Dean what was wrong if he asked. More often than not, he'd actually have to plead with the younger boy to get him to admit anything was wrong at all.

"The light makes my head hurt more." He said, and that was all it took for Dean to dart up and shut off the offending glare with one flick of his wrist.

The room was completely dark, save the moonlight filtering in through the window, when Dean returned to his side.

The teen adjusted himself so that he was sitting with his back against the sink, before he pulled Sammy to him gently.

"You're shaking," he noted out loud, once Sam was curled up against his side.

His felt his brother's hands tighten their grip on the front of his t-shirt and could almost feel him clench his teeth in an effort to reduce the shivering.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"It's not your fault." Dean told him sternly. He wanted to hold Sammy out in front of him and force him to meet his eyes. To make him understand that he was not mad. But he knew moving him would be a bad idea, and probably cause him more pain, so he settled on simply repeating, "It is not your fault. I'm not mad at you. You're gonna be okay."

He felt Sammy nod, but had no idea if he believed the words. At the moment though, it was all he had to offer

"Can I have another aspirin?" The child asked desperately and Dean bit his lip to keep it from quivering.

"No, I...I...you had one earlier and it's dangerous for you to have more than that." He hated logic sometimes.

"But it hurts," he moaned.

"I know," he said sadly into Sam's hair. "I know."

Dean felt Sam's tears soak into his thin cotton t-shirt and pulled his brother closer to him. He closed his own eyes and let his head fall back against the sink. He rubbed circles on his back as he always did when Sam was upset, but was not surprised when they did nothing to ease his hurting.

He hated this. He hated being helpless to stop his brother's pain. At least when it was their father, Dean had the option of distracting the older man. To turn the attention away from Sammy. To protect him. And when he failed to do that, there were actual wounds to be tended to. Something physical that he could mend and care for.

Whatever had Sam so sick right now, and he hoped to God it was nothing serious like he sucpected it might be, he could do nothing for. They had no medicine, save the pain killers that Dean wasn't even allowed to give him. After spending all their money from the month before on essential items like food and Sam's new school things, they had almost nothing left over. Certainly not enough for medicine.

Dean had gone to the drugstore the first day Sammy had been sick, hoping beyond hope that he'd be able to find something to help his little brother. He'd found out that, not only was the children's Tylenol extremely expensive, it was kept in a locked glass cabinet behind the counter, so he couldn't even steal it.

In actuality, it wasn't that expensive, but with all the money they didn't have, it sure as hell felt like it. One again, he cursed the law that said he had to be sixteen to get any kind of job. It was a stupid law. Dean was more mature and more responsible than most sixteen year olds, he knew this, and he wasn't being arrogant in his evaluation of himself. It was just a fact. He'd grown up fast.

Sam's mumblings pulled him out of depressing, angry thoughts and quickly brought his attention back to his baby brother.

"What?" Dean asked, not making out Sam's garbled speech.

"I wanna go back to bed," he repeated more clearly. "I'm cold."

Dean ignored the panic that that statement filled him with. Maybe it was just his imagination, maybe it wasn't really bordering on eighty degrees in the tiny bathroom. No need to worry about it, right?

"Sure, buddy." Dean said easily, making a move to stand, holding Sammy close to him. He rose to his feet slowly, supporting most of Sam's weight as he went along, the younger boy was leaning against him heavily. "Just hold on, alright?"

Sam didn't respond, but Dean hadn't expected him to, they made their way slowly to Sam's bed, collapsing onto it once they got there. Sam didn't ask, but Dean didn't hesitate in crawling into bed next to him. Sam curled up against him, much the same way he had been moments before in the bathroom. Dean reached over and pulled up the comforter, tucking it around him until it resembled a cocoon.

After a few moments of settling in, Sam's head was resting comfortably on Dean's chest. The elder brother felt Sam start to breath along with him and immediately started to take deeper breaths. He wasn't sure if Sammy was doing it on purpose or not, he wasn't even sure of how coherent the younger boy was at the moment, but he was glad for it.

It took roughly another half an hour of even breathing to get Sam to finally fall into a restless sleep. Only when Dean was sure he was asleep, did he shut his own eyes again. Sleep found him almost immediately. But the knowledge of Sam's pain ensured that he rested no easier than his little brother did that night.

* * *

The decision for Dean to go to school the next morning was one made based completely on fear, and nothing else. As it was, it wasn't even Dean's fear that was the driving factor. 

"You have to go to school," Sam argued, sitting on Dean's bed the next morning. He looked better than he had in a couple days, but that wasn't saying all that much.

"No." Dean stated flatly, and continued his task of changing the sheets on Sam's bed.

"The school's gonna notice," he pointed out.

"I don't care." He stated stubbornly. There was no way he was leaving his sick brother home alone. No way.

"I'm fine," Sam kept pushing the issue. "I'll probably sleep all day."

"You know as well as I do that that's not true." Dean said evenly, trying to keep his annoyance in check. Neither boy had slept soundly in days.

"Fine," Sam agreed. "But what good is you being here doing? I'm still sick."

The words jabbed at Dean's already guilty conscious, and had to remind himself that Sam wasn't trying to point out the fact that Dean was failing.

"Well, you're obviously feel better today," he bit out. This was the most Sammy had said in a long while. And while it eased a bit of Dean's worry, he had to take into account the fact that Sam's voice was still weak and raspy. Not to mention his almost alarming paleness, and Dean didn't miss the thin layer of sweat that had broken out across his forehead. "But I'm still not going to school."

Sam's next words were spoken quietly but they made Dean freeze. "What if they call dad?"

He swallowed thickly and tried to keep his own panic at bay. "They don't know how to get a hold of him." He argued rationally, his voice much quieter an less forceful than it had been just a moment before.

"You don't know that," Sam said, just as softly. "He could have talked to the school last time he was in town."

Dean seriously doubted that, but Sammy sounded as scared as he had last night, and Dean hated hearing that. "Nobody's gonna call dad." He said firmly.

"Well, what if they get suspicious and come here and ask to talk to him." Sam was now bordering on frantic and Dean couldn't help but remember the social worker from years before. "What if he comes home, Dean? What if somebody takes us away..."

"Calm down." Dean ordered gently. "I promise you, that's not going to happen."

Sam wouldn't meet his eyes and Dean sighed. "If I go to school, will you relax?"

"Yes," Sam nodded.

"You know, I could just call myself off, like I did for you." He said, already knowing it was a pointless argument.

"My school already thinks you're dad," and it was true that Dean had spoken with Sam's principal over the phone enough times for the woman to honestly believe that his fake deep voice was actually the one of John Winchester. It was just another one of those things he was good at when it came to taking care of his brother. "The high school might not."

Honestly, Dean had no idea what his new school's policy was on calling kids off school. He'd only been there a few weeks before Sam had gotten sick. He made a mental note to find out, just incase he was ever stuck in this situation again.

"Okay," he finally agreed. "I'll go to school, but I'm coming home right after, and I expect you to be right here." He nodded to the bed.

"Yeah," he agreed. "Where else would I be?"

Dean ignored the question. "And if you get any worse..." he trailed off, because he really had no idea what to tell him. There was no way for Sam to contact him. No one else for Sam to call. There was no one else that knew of their home life. "Just, don't get any worse, okay?" He pleaded.

"I won't." Sam assured. "I'm just gonna sleep." He seemed satisfied and relieved at Dean's decision and the older brother hated that they were so constricted by their ages.

Sammy laid back on the bed, as if to demonstrate how he would spend the rest of the day. Dean sighed, after a few minutes, Sam's breathing slowed and Dean walked over to him. Brushing some of his bangs off his forehead, forcing himself to ignore how they were stuck there by the sweat.

He bent over and placed a light kiss on the crown of his head. "Sleep tight, kiddo." He mumbled, not sure if Sam had actually fallen asleep or not yet, but guessing by how still he was, that if he hadn't, it wasn't far off. "I'll find a way to make you better. I promise."

* * *

Chance and Alan were two guys who hung our by the bleachers, at the back entrance of the school building. Dean had seen them the first few days of high school, as he had a tendency to arrive late, and the back doors were the only ones unlocked after eight. 

He hadn't thought much of them. He could tell, just by looking at them, that they were bad guys. And really, it didn't take the joint perpetually hanging out of Chance's mouth or the beer always at Alan's side for him to realize this.

The mere fact that Alan, a guy who looked to be about eighteen years old, reminded him of his father, that was enough for Dean to know he was a bad guy. Chance didn't bother him as much, and was considerably younger, probably a year or so older than Dean himself. But he still didn't like the glare that he was always shooting at everyone. He wondered sometimes if it was intentional, or if that's just how his face was.

He hadn't thought about the two guys since his encounter with them a couple weeks ago. He'd forgotten all about them actually, until today.

"Dean!" It was Chance yelling for him.

He stopped automatically and looked over. They were standing there, just as they always were. The familiarity of it was enough to produce a flashback of what had happened earlier in the school year. A mere week or two ago.

_"Come Here!" One of the two guys yelled. _

_Dean looked around him, just to make sure that there was no one else he could possibly be yelling at. Considering it was already past nine and no one else was around, he figured it was a safe bet that it was indeed him he was yelling to. _

_"You deaf?" Now that he younger teen was looking at them, he learned that it was the guy clad in the black hoodie who'd called out to him. He was now gesturing for Dean to join them under the bleachers._

_It was one of those moments that'd he'd be able to go back to and pinpoint for the rest of his life. A timeless one that would change everything. _

_Had he grown up differently, with a father who loved him and taught him how to stand up for himself, he might have possessed the power to just walk away. To ignore them. _

_As it was, he'd grown up with a father who hated him and who he, despite all his best efforts to pretend not to be, was terrified of. And the guy in the thick , black biker jacket was now looking at him the same way his dad did when he dispensed orders. It was look he knew he had to succumb to, if he wanted to make it out of the situation unhurt._

_It was that look that had him crossing the few feet of grass that separated them. It was the reminder of his father, that would change his life forever. _

_"You're pretty late." The one in the hoodie said, taking a drag from his joint. "That's not gonna look good on those college applications."_

_"Family stuff," he said in way of explanation, hating all the while that he felt like he owed this guy an explanation._

_"Right," he nodded, but his eyes narrowed and his look became suspicious. There was a long pause, a stretch of silence that seemed to go on forever._

_"We've been watching you," Hoodie guy finally continued. "I think we can help you out."_

_Well that was a little creepy. "What makes you think I need any kind of help?" Especially from stalker psychos like you. Internal sarcasm meant to disguise his own fear was the only thing he could manage to think of._

_"You need money, right?" The guy responded._

_Dean stared at him, completely dumbfounded, and at a loss for words. _

_"Don't looked so shocked," he tossed the now extinct joint casually to the side. "You don't really hide it. Ratty clothes, torn up stuff," he nodded to Dean's book bag. "You never eat."_

_"So what?" He asked harshly, not liking the accurateness of his evaluation._

_"So, I have a way for you to make some extra cash." Dean was torn between curiosity and fear, he wanted to tell them to screw themselves, but somehow, that's not what came out of his mouth._

_"Doing what?" He cursed himself, and thought again that he really knew nothing about these guys. Other than the fact that they were druggies, and proud of it. _

_"Nothin' much." Hoodie guy shrugged. "Just delivering a package."_

_Dean nodded, "You want me to be a drug dealer." He chuckled humorlessly. "Yeah, I don't think so."_

_He turned to walk away. He was going to walk away from them. That had been the plan._

_"Three hundred bucks," The guy in the leather jacket called out, halting Dean's movements. "To knock on a door and hand someone a box."_

_Dean swallowed, his mind oddly blank. "Why me?"_

_"We need someone new." Dean hadn't turned to face them again, but he could practically hear the smirk in his voice. "All my clients know Chance, and to be honest, they don't like him a whole lot. Think he talks too much. We need a fresh face."_

_"Okay," Dean agreed. He had no idea how these kind of things worked. All his knowledge of these situations came from second hand gossip stories and television, he never even considered the possibility that he'd find himself locked in this sort of encounter. It was a bit mind numbing. "But why me?"_

_"You got nothin' to loose."_

_Dean turned to face them again, his gaze hard and fixed. "No thanks." Because he did have something to loose. _

_Chance nodded, while the guy in the leather kept staring. Dean was scared of him, but he'd never admit it. _

_"Take this," Chance dug around the pockets of his baggy pants, before pulling out a pen and a paper. He scribbled something on it and handed it to Dean. "Call if you change your mind."_

_Dean snatched the small white paper without thinking and shoved it in his pocket. "Sure." He agreed, knowing it meant nothing, and turned away without so much as a glance back. _

"We got a job lined up." Chance's voice brought him back to the present. That encounter felt as if it'd happened eons ago. It was part of a different lifetime. One not fueled by desperation. "Tomorrow afternoon."

He opened his mouth to yell back at him, tell him what he thought of their way of life and how much he didn't want to be a part of it. Then closed it, remembering Sam and the money they needed.

Alan saw his hesitation, and shot him a half-smile, that looked, in no way, sincere or comforting. He looked rather evil, actually."Think about it." He ordered.

Dean gave a curt nod and walked away.

He did as he was told.

He thought about it.

* * *

When Dean got home that afternoon, he went immediately to the bedroom, already picturing in his mind, Sam sitting upright on the bed with a genuine smile, playing solitaire or something, demanding that Dean let him got to school tomorrow. That he was fine. That's what Dean was praying for. That's what drove away the thoughts of his earlier encounter with Alan and Chance. 

As it was, Sam was laying on his side, he looked up as soon as Dean made it to the door, and it was beyond obvious, after one glance at his expressionistic face, that he was in pain.

"Hey, Dean." Sam rasped from his slightly awkward position on the bed.

"Sammy," Dean said before rushing over to his side. "What's wrong?"

"My ear hurts." He said, not even bothering to try and hide the pain. That in itself sent up a red flag for the teenager. "It started earlier. I think I have an ear infection."

"Crap." Dean swore under his breath.

"Ear infections can actually cause fever and migraines. Remember?" Sam asked, and Dean realized that the fever may be making him slightly delusional. His voice was oddly factual, yet slightly high pitched and bordering on frantic. His eyes were glazed over and he was shaking.

"Yeah," he answered anyway. "I was hoping you didn't have one." He'd recognized the symptoms of the condition the first night his little brother had been sick, but he was praying it would just turn out to be a normal cold or flu.

He hated being helpless to stop whatever was causing Sam's pain, but at least those ailments you could wait out, and fight off with bed rest and chicken noodle soup. Dean had been praying, really praying,that that was all it would take.

"I remember the last time...you had an ear infection." Sam was obviously trying incredibly hard to get a grip on his thoughts. It was apparent in the way that he was speaking that his mind was blurry and unfocused.

Dean cringed at the memory his little brother was referring to. "Dad's not here Sammy, he's not gonna get mad at you like that, okay?"

"Kay..." he mumbled, before falling back against the cushioned pillows.

"Sammy?" Dean questioned, not liking the way his brother would not respond. "Sammy. Say something." His voice rose slightly in panic as he reached out and gripped Sam's shoulders. "Please, say something!"

Sam turned his head slightly to the side and let our a small cough.

"Sammy?" He tried again.

"Something." He choked and it wasn't until Dean saw the slight smirk did he relax somewhat.

"Funny," He said sarcastically, then sighed, actually relieved.

"Do I have to go to the doctor?" Sam asked, sounding utterly and completely frightened at the notion.

"Sam..." Dean started.

"'Cause we can't." He said desperately. "Not without dad, Dean we can't..."

"I know, Sammy." He soothed, reaching a hand out and placing it on his forehead comfortingly, with the intention of checking his fever. He was still burning up. "There's medicine at the store that I can get for you. Medicine we don't need to go to the doctor for."

Sammy nodded, and let his head fall to the right. The side that he'd been resting on before. It was obvious that the infection was in the left ear. Dean sympathized with his baby brother, having an ear infection was killer.

In his opinion, it had been worse when he'd had one and their dad had been there yelling at him and smacking him around like it was _his _fault he'd developed the infection. But at least the man had provided the proper medication for his ailing son. The medicine that Sammy now needed. The medicine that cost about thirty bucks at the drugstore around the corner.

"I'm gonna fix this Sammy." He whispered hoarsely, biting his lip to keep from crying. "I'm gonna make you better."

He hated feeling helpless. He hated that there was nothing he could do to make their lives better. They'd been abandoned by their father. Thrown to the side like garbage. Abused, threatened and hated by the one person who was supposed to love them unconditionally.

Dean didn't understand how this could have happened to them. When he was younger, he didn't know what normal was supposed to mean. He didn't have anything to compare their lifestyle to. He thought having a mean father was the way it was supposed to be. Why else would that social services lady leave him here with him? Couldn't she see what was really going on?

Dean didn't know much at that age, and in all honesty, he knew less now. He didn't know why John Winchester hated his sons enough to hurt them and then abandon them. He didn't understand why his mother had died. He couldn't possibly fathom any reasoning behind their constant suffering. Why was this happening to them?

What he did know though, what he would always understand, was that it was his responsibility to take care of Sammy. He didn't need anybody to tell him that, he didn't need rules or reasoning for that simple fact of life. He loved his baby brother, and Sam was all he had left in this world.

Dean would do anything to keep his little brother safe and healthy. He would provide for him, no matter what the cost. They didn't need their father. Not today, not ever.

"I'm gonna take care of you Sam." He said out loud, reminding himself of what he knew he had to do.

"You always do." Sam's words were mumbled and he sounded only slightly coherent. Which just cemented Dean's decision. Sammy needed him. Sammy needed him to be strong and to take care of things.

"I'll be right back." He mumbled, pulling his brother's blanket up before rising to his feet.

On unsteady legs he walked across the room, finding the pair of dirty pants he was looking for, he searched through the pockets, finding what he wanted in the tiny, slightly crumbled joint paper.

He made his way out to the kitchen, hands shaking, breathing labored. The only thought that would stick in his head was the one he kept repeating to himself again and again.

He had to do this, Sammy needed him.

He dialed the numbers into the phone, feeling the entire time as if he were functioning on auto-pilot.

Chance answered on the third ring. "What?" He greeted him.

"Chance?" He confirmed.

"Who's asking?" Doing his best to act like a tough guy.

"It's Dean." He said, continuing without preamble. "You know that job you mentioned?"

"Yeah?" He said, sounding doubtful.

He swallowed and sucked in a lungful of air. "I'm interested."

There was a long pause, and Dean held his breath. Half hoping that the other boy would tell him that he had waited too long, that they had found someone else to do their illegal bidding. Half praying that he wasn't too late, believing that this was the only way he could get money. The only way he could take care of his brother.

A few moments that felt like an eternity had passed, before Chance responded with words that would effectively change Dean's life forever.

"It's about damn time. I almost gave up on your punk ass." The older boy chuckled. "You sure you're in?"

He was giving him an out. It was a disclaimer almost, a warning. He was either all in, or he was out. No middle ground existed in Chance's world. The one Dean absolutely refused to think of as the life of a drug dealer. He wasn't a drug dealer.

That would be too melodramatic of a term. Too movie of the week, chick flickish, need for an intervention, drama ensuing, and ultimately dangerous of a term. This wasn't a new way of life, this didn't shape who he was. This was just a way to get money. Money that his family needed.

It was simple equation. So incredibly easy to understand, that he almost laughed out loud.

Dean needs money to take care of Sammy. Dean gets money so he can take care of Sammy. That was that. That was all that mattered.

So he ignored the lump in his throat and the gnawing in his gut.

"Yeah," he said as firmly as he could manage. "I'm in."

* * *

TBC... 

So, what do you think? Realistic? A plot worth pursuing? Should I continue with this, or try something else? Really, any thoughts would be nice!


	5. Unaware how the ranks have grown

Title: On The Turning Away

Author: Oldach's Dream

Summary: Dean would do anything to keep his little brother safe and healthy. He would provide for him, no matter what the cost. They didn't need their father. Not today, not ever. AU, what if they'd had Max's childhood?

Disclaimer: I own nothing of Supernatural.

Rating: T

Chapter Five: Unaware how the ranks have grown

Alan was the instigator. He'd been doing this for years. The guy was nineteen years old, and still technically in the eleventh grade. The only reason he hung around the school at all anymore was to...recruit...new guys to come and work for him. God knows he didn't go to class.

He had the mentality of a twelve-year-old. Not even, because Sammy was only eleven and he was more complex than this guy was. Alan's logic worked something like this; I see it, I want it, I take it. Or if that doesn't work, I get someone to take it for me.

The guy had been smoking pot since he was nine or ten years old, his father was in jail, for what, Dean didn't want to know. Alan himself had been in and out of juvi since age thirteen. He had yet to get caught and tried as an adult, but Dean had a feeling it was just a matter of time.

Dean didn't know the extent of the drugs that Alan did. Marijuana was at the bottom of the list, that was for sure. Meth, speed, cocaine...Dean really didn't know what else was on his track record. Nor did he care to. Just like he didn't want to know what was in the packages he was delivering.

He didn't stop and talk to the big bleary guys who always wrenched the package out of his hands and threw money at him. He didn't care that these guys were killing themselves with these drugs, slowly but surely. That was their choice. Dean was there for one reason, and one reason only. And that reason was currently being counted out and handed to him by Chance.

"There you go, kid." The older boy smirked at him. "That should keep you in comic books for a while."

Dean snorted at the humor behind the statement. Chance was the one who had sought him out to indulge in this lifestyle. Chance has convinced Alan that he would be right for this job, but still the sixteen-year-old did not believe that Dean was doing this for any reason other than a way to get a cheap thrill and make some extra cash.

Yeah, he though sarcastically, pocketing the wad of small-billed money, I'd be doing this if I didn't have to be. He was standing smack dab in the center of Alan's run down, old apartment. The start and finish to all his jobs.

The place made Dean and Sam's tiny apartment on the other side of town look like a luxury suite in an exotic motel. All the furniture here was stained, varying degrees of yellowish oranges that Dean didn't even want to try to identify. There was drug paraphernalia - and residue - all over the place as well. As a whole, it smelled like a decaying ashtray, or something as equally disgusting.

Of course, the most disturbing part was that it took less than your first five minutes in this place, to become used to it. You forgot what the world was supposed to smell like until you got back outside.

"Hope you didn't miss out on school today," Chance's sarcastic tone met him again. This guy was always sarcastic. To the point of obnoxious, really.

"It's fine." Dean shrugged. He always tried his best not to talk too much. He'd seen a phrase as simple as 'nice coat' turn into a rough brawl in this room. Knives had been drawn. Alan ended up with the coat.

"Does that mean you're in for next time?" He asked and Dean considered it. Bills were paid. Sammy's medicine had been purchased, he now had enough money to pay for the additional groceries they needed, and hopefully their father would pull himself out of his drunken stupor - wherever he was - long enough to remember to send his sons some money.

"Nah," Dean shook his head, sounding casual. "I'm good for now."

"I bet." Chance snorted. But when he didn't go on, the younger teen figured it was safe enough to leave. If he caught the bus out of the downtown area, he'd be able to make it home not too long after Sam. He started heading for the door.

"Hey Dean," Chance called out, just as he gripped the door handle. Dean turned to look at him, but said nothing. "Don't disappear." He somehow managed to make the simple words sound like a threat.

Dean wasn't sure how he was supposed to respond to that, so he just nodded, and tried his best to look passive, yet mildly frightened. It was the same look he'd put on when his father used to scream at him. Because if he wore it right, and for long enough, the man would forget his anger and Dean wouldn't end up playing the roll of a punching bag.

When the sarcastic teen cast his eyes away, Dean felt that it was safe to leave. And this time no one stopped him. His walking was as fast paced as he could manage, without making it look like he was running away from something.

He kept his eyes focused straight ahead of him, as he exited the building and made it to the street. He blocked out the images of all the homeless people, the pimps and hookers, well disguised as they might be, that lined the streets of this neighborhood.

Dean had first stepped foot here a mere week or so ago, but it felt like he'd been living here a lifetime.

The world that Alan lived in, the world of drug addicts, he supposed, was so radically different from the one he lived in with his little brother; it literally felt like he was walking through a portal by making it to the bus stop.

While he was in this neighborhood, it was like nothing else in the world existed. How could it? When there were heroin addicts passed out on the vomit-stained couch next to you? When child molesters lived in the apartment down the hall, when every single person on your speed dial had served at least two years in some kind of detention center?

How could anything else feel real?

Then the bus would take him home. Home to his little brother, who needed and depended on him. Home, where their absentee father was abusive in a way that had scarred his sons for life. Once he was home, it was Alan's world that didn't feel real.

The life of the druggies he helped supply, that was the one that became just a distant fog, clouding the back of his mind. He was left with only memories and a wad of cash in his pocket. And while he was down there, in that other place, it seemed like the most horrible place in the world to be.

Nothing was safe or secure. It was every man for himself, kill or be killed. Buy, sell or get out. Dean hated it. And every second he was in that rundown apartment or anywhere in that vicinity, all he could think about was wanting to go home.

Once he finally got home though, and he had time to reflect, he realized all he had done, was take a package, usually a small box, locate an address, and knock on someone's door.

Granted nothing smelled great, and the people were somewhat frightening. He had been offered drugs numerous times in his two encounters thus far. He hadn't accepted, and no one seemed to care. More for them.

One package, a couple of bad smells and people whom he was all too happy to ignore. That wasn't so bad, was it? Because at the end of the day, he had still come home with money. Money that they needed. And that was all that mattered.

* * *

Dean got home a little later than he'd predicted, around four in the afternoon. Ever since he reentered the familiar territory of his own neighborhood, Dean had been struggling with whether or not to talk to Sam about his recent decisions in making them money.

They had promised to always tell each other the truth...but at what cost? Did Sammy - an eleven-year-old kid - really need to know what his big brother was doing to make them money?

Logic said no, he didn't. At all. But something inside Dean argued that if he didn't tell Sam the truth now, it might have lasting affects on his brother's ability to trust him. And since neither brother trusted anyone else, Dean seriously doubted it would be a smart idea to take that away from him. Nor did he have the slightest desire to take that away from him.

Then again, what if Sam disagreed with what Dean was doing? Or worse, what if it made his little brother scared of him? Sam had definite issues when it came to being timid. He tried his best to act unafraid of people around him, but Dean saw through it.

Knew that, in his brother's eyes, every adult was a possible John Winchester. Every shout could be followed by a smashing bottle and pain. Dean hated Sam's fear. Hated their father for putting it there. He just hoped that his little brother grew out of it as the years wore on.

He expected it would get better. Sammy had certainly grown up in the years that their father worked his far away jobs. It was just a matter of time. Or so he told himself.

As Dean entered their apartment, memories of his fight with his little brother this morning resurfaced and made him cringe. Sammy had been angry with him for lying to him. For not going to school after he promised he would. It wasn't that shocking, to Sammy, anything that drew attention to them had the potential to bring forth their father.

Dean understood that fear.

His mind was not yet made up as to what he would share with his brother, but the time for contemplation ended as he made his way into the living room and saw Sam perched on the couch, TV flickering in front of him.

Sam wasn't a big fan of TV, neither was Dean actually; it was just something they never had time for, or access to. So seeing Sam there was a bit unexpected.

The younger boy just glanced up when he heard Dean's approach, he cast him a fleeting look, before returning his attention to the screen. His knees were drawn up to his chest in a casual manner, making him look skinner than he was and as insecure as he could be.

Sam had hit a growth spurt around age nine or ten; he was tall for his age, yet not as tall as his big brother. Sam would never be as tall as Dean; of this the elder brother was certain. The eleven-year-old was lanky and, in Dean's opinion, did not eat enough. Right now though, that was not cause for his concern.

Dean sighed at Sammy's refusal to meet his eyes and wondered briefly if he should just leave the other boy alone. He chased that idea away with the knowledge that if Sam wanted to be alone, he would have gotten up and left the room by now.

Dean moved forward and sat next to his brother on the couch. Sam didn't make an effort to talk to him, or get away from him. Neutral territory. It was Dean's move.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you," Dean hated apologizing to Sammy. Hated himself when he needed to.

Sam sighed and pressed the mute button on the TV, still he didn't face his brother, but Dean knew he had his attention, so he went on.

"It was while you were sick," he explained. "I needed to do something, so I could get you medicine. So we wouldn't have to go to the doctor." He hoped his brother could be grateful for at least that much.

"You told me you went to school." The young boy said, and Dean marveled at how simple a child's mind could be sometimes.

Maybe everything was supposed to be that simple. Maybe it was the grown-ups, with their half-truths and gray areas, that were getting it wrong.

"I know I did, Sammy." Dean sighed. "And I did go. When I got there though, something came up. An opportunity for me to make some real money."

"Dad hasn't sent us any lately." It was a simple statement, an observation of a fact, and Dean berated himself for thinking that Sam wouldn't notice.

"No kiddo, he hasn't." Dean's voice was apologetic. Whether for his own actions, or the lacking ones of their father, he wasn't sure. "I had to take care of things, I had to make you better. You understand that, right?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded. He was much less angry than he had been this morning. Dean prayed that his anger was actually gone, that he wasn't just hiding it out of fear.

Although, Sam had never feared Dean, never been timid or frightful around his big brother. Just like Dean never acted like a sarcastic little smart ass around him. Who they pretended to be – intentional or not – for the outside world, was not who they were with each other.

"So…" Sam trailed off and swallowed. Dean waited. "So, what did you do? To make the money?"

"I…ah," Dean bit the side of his lip and ran a hand through his hair. "Someone, this guy I know…he asked me to deliver something for him."

Sam's faced scrunched in confusion and Dean was not surprised. His answer had been vague and Sam was smart enough to figure out that there was something he wasn't saying.

"Why couldn't he do it himself?" Sam inquired.

"It's kinda complicated." Dean offered in way of explanation. He would not lie to his little brother; he would just try his hardest not to tell him the absolute truth.

'Cause really, how would that go over? 'Hey Sammy, I've turned to a life of selling drugs? You still trust me?' Dean never wanted to find out the answer to that question.

Sam opened his mouth to say something more, but shut it again, keeping his eyes glued to the other side of the room. "You gonna do it again?" He asked instead and the elder brother breathed a sigh of relief.

"I'm not planning on it." He said honestly. "Not unless we really need the money."

Sam nodded again, but still would not meet his brother's eyes.

"I won't lie about it if I do." Dean offered. "I'll tell you, I'll…" He paused there, because he could not say what he'd wanted to say. He could not tell Sammy that he wouldn't do it again if he didn't want him to.

"It was dangerous, wasn't it?" Sam looked up, finally locking gazes with Dean. "Whatever you did, we wouldn't be talking like this if it hadn't been dangerous."

Dean wondered to what depths Sam really understood. Just barely eleven years old, and he understood way more than he should already. Still, this was not an easy concept to grasp. Dean wouldn't have been able to contemplate it four years ago.

Hell, he could barely comprehend it now. What he was doing…it had only one goal. Everything else was surreal and didn't count. Became fake once the circumstances changed.

"It was…it, it wasn't safe." Dean admitted, and found his throat closing slightly as he did so. "But it wasn't life threatening. It was just a kinda job."

Sam nodded and stayed silent for a moment. Dean held his breath. "I…" the younger boy trailed off for only a moment, before continuing with conviction. "I don't want anything to happen to you. I don't want dad to come back."

Dean let out a deep breath and answered the only way he could. "Nothing's gonna happen to me, little brother." He smirked slightly, his gaze holding reassurance. "I promise."

Sam nodded again, only this time it was followed by a smile. A real one. Because Dean had never lied to Sammy. Disregarding their quarrel about the events of the week previous, there had never been a moment where Sam didn't trust Dean to tell him the truth.

That trust was still there. And for that, the older boy would be eternally grateful.

"Okay Dean." Sam answered, and that was the end of that particular conversation.

"Okay." Dean repeated. The silence hung in the air around them, but he did not let it last. Silence held the potential for new questions, and while Dean doubted it would happen, knew that Sammy trusted him; he did not want to risk it quite yet. "So, watcha watching?"

Sam shrugged and glanced back at the TV. "Cartoons." He lifted the remote and un-muted the flickering box. The sounds of late afternoon, nonsense filled entertainment, filtered throughout the room like a quiet background hum.

"So, you gotta a lot of homework?" Dean inquired lightly.

Sam nodded, "Math, but it won't take me long to do it."

"Pretty confidant there, buddy." Dean smirked, and nudged his shoulder lightly. "Considering at the beginning of the school year you barely knew what was going on." Sam was the smartest kid in his class, yet math had always been a challenge for him.

"They fired Mr. Pickens." Sam informed. "He was giving us work that was way too hard."

"Huh," Dean grunted. "I just thought they were expecting more out of kids these days."

"These days?" Sam questioned. "You're not _that_ much older than me."

Dean rolled his eyes, "So your teacher got fired…?" He prompted Sam to continue.

"Yeah," He went on. "The new guy has no idea what's going on, so he's just giving us all the stuff that we've already done."

"Cool," Dean said, genuinely jealous. He missed the days when school was easy and required little, if any, real thought. "Hey, if you get too bored, you could always do my homework."

"I'll keep that in mind." Sam smiled, and there was a lull in the conversation.

Dean wondered if Sam had really moved past the subject of Dean's skipping school and his new 'job'. He knew that Sammy trusted him, but that much compliance was unexpected.

"So what's for dinner tonight?" Sam questioned, and it really seemed as if he had let the other subject go entirely.

"Depends," Dean answered, not letting his own concern shine through. If Sam was willing to trust him completely on it, Dean would not look a gift horse in the mouth. "If I make something, will you actually eat it?"

"If it's edible." Sam said easily.

"Hey," the elder protested. "All my food's edible!"

"That casserole thing the other day was edible?" Sam questioned ludicrously.

Dean cringed at the memory of his botched attempt to make something new for them to consume. "Well, I was sick of macaroni and cheese." He defended himself.

"I love macaroni and cheese." Sam exclaimed, even though Dean was very much aware of that fact. It was one of the only things his brother was willing to eat half the time.

"How about we try something new." He suggested. "Chinese?"

"I've never had Chinese food," Sam said, sounding hesitant.

"Perfect." Dean declared. "We'll order it tonight."

"Okay," Sam agreed after a moment of hesitation. "But if I hate it, you're making me Mac and cheese."

Dean shook his head, but complied nonetheless. "Whatever you say, little brother."

Because right then, Dean was so grateful, that he would have made Sam whatever he wanted. He would have done anything. Sam had assured him, in his own way, that he was not angry with his big brother for lying to him. The trust between them was still intact.

Sam and Dean spent the rest of the night home alone, as they always did. There were no angry phone calls from John Winchester; the boys forgot, for the night, that he even existed.

Sam wasn't sick or inverted or anything other than happy and carefree. He ate his dinner without complaint, and even enjoyed an incredibly unhealthy dessert of Chinese donuts. Which Dean had ordered without any knowledge of what they really were. They turned out to be balls of fired dough, dipped in cinnamon. Sammy absolutely loved them. Dean found them to be a little too sweet, but enjoyed watching his brother's enthusiasm over the new junk fooddiscovery.

Dean wasn't stressed about their money, or lack thereof. They had enough to live on for weeks. Sam was doing as well as he always did in school.

A glow of contentment surrounded them that night. Two brothers living the way they did might not have been conventional or orthodox in any way, shape or form. Some might even go as far to call it wrong, unsafe, or destined for failure.

But the Winchester brothers didn't know another way to live. The only other version of life they had ever been exposed to was the abusive one with their father. That wasn't something they ever wanted to relive. And John was making it incredibly easy for his sons to forget about him.

So the boys stayed together, as happy as they could be. They were a family.

It was Sam and Dean, against the world.

* * *

TBC…

Your thoughts would be well appreciated!


	6. Driven on by a heart of stone

Title: On The Turning Away

Author: Oldach's Dream

Summary: Dean would do anything to keep his little brother safe and healthy. He would provide for him, no matter what the cost. They didn't need their father. Not today, not ever. AU, what if they'd had Max's childhood? Angst and Smarm.

Disclaimer: Don't own a thing.

Rating: T

A/N: Okay, I know I haven't updated in a while, but I've trying to tie up 'Blackbird'. I hope this chapter makes up for it. I included a few scenes from John's perspective, and I warn you now, they deal with abuse (obviously) and drug use. If this irks you at all, don't read. But just trust me when I say that I've done my absolute best to portray it realistically.

Hope you enjoy, and drop me a line - thoughts, concerns, ideas...everything is welcome. Enjoy!

* * *

Driven on by a heart of stone

John Winchester had always had a bad temper problem. When he'd been a child, he was known for constantly ripping the heads of his little sister's Barbie dolls, claiming that the noise they made with their 'games' was much too irritating to be dealt with in a daily basis.

His father would just shake his head and proclaim that boys would, after all, be boys. His mother, a shy and timid woman, wanted to argue that by age fifteen, John certainly wasn't a boy anymore and his pranks had escalated from mere Barbie mutilation to some much more morbid pastimes, and perhaps they should seek professional help for his problems. But her husband wasn't too taken with that idea, and he was simply not the sort of man that could be argued with.

So the problem remained un-dealt with.

Then one day, when John had been just shy of twenty and about ready to join the marines - an idea his mother had strongly encouraged - his sister, age fifteen, had been abducted while walking home from school. In the bright light of day, just snatched off the street. The entire family had been in a panic.

His father was snapping at the police, and constantly getting into screaming matches with them. John couldn't stop pounding his fists into nearby walls, and Mrs. Winchester could not, for the life of herself, stop crying. Despite her husbands numerous demands that she do just that.

The body of Hannah Winchester was discovered three days later in a shallow grave just outside of town. Raped and murdered.

John's mother was dead the next night - suicide.

His father had picked up a bottle of whiskey, sat himself in front of his old, black and white TV, and hadn't moved since. He was probably dead by now too. John would never know.

John had had taken the news in stride. Not even blinking at its revelation. He was realist, and he'd been expecting this since day one. He had already known the truth.

And when he began hanging around the police headquarters, no one had the heart to tell him to go home. Everyone knew that his home no longer had anything to offer him.

He sat quietly in the corner, never moving, and people began to forget he was there. He'd become a background object.

By the time the forensics from Hannah's crime scene came back, no one thought about saying anything out loud. They had all forgotten there was a civilian in the room.

Two days later, they had identified Hanna's murderer, and rapist, as a local college student. Hector Singlas.

Five hours after that, the twenty-two year old boy was pronounced dead in his dorm room. The bullet hole through his head not leaving any room for argument. A police issued gun lay at his side, and every single police officer there knew exactly who had committed the crime.

But John Winchester was on boat, halfway across the Atlantic by then. The newest marine in his section. Ready and willing to fight, die, and kill for his country.

Because when you waved an American flag in the background, killing was okay.

Meeting and marrying his wife was the only thing that ever soothed his temper, ever eased his anger. Even his two little sons had a tendency to grate on his nerves, but John would never do anything to them, not with Mary right there; he didn't want to.

Then, one night, when Sammy had been only a baby, Dean a mere toddler, a fire had started, and John's world crumbled as he experienced pain as he never had before. Not even when Hannah was pronounced dead did he feel this much raw revulsion at the world.

He told Dean to get out with Sammy, because he thought maybe -for a few brief moments - that he could save his wife, that he could put his family back together.

Then he'd run into Sam's nursery, and there, right above the boy's bed, was his beautiful, patient, loving wife. With a slice across her stomach and an unparalleled horror in her eyes.

John tried his best to save her, but knew without looking that he was too late. That the fire had taken her.

He was prepared to go with her. To die with the only person he had ever willingly chose to care about. The only member of his family that he got to pick. The love of his life.

He sat on the floor of the nursery and waited for the fire to take him as well.

But the firefighters came. They pulled him out just in time.

_No harm done. _They said through breathing masks.

_You still have your sons. _They assured.

John didn't want to hear them, didn't want to be there anymore. Finally, he understood how his own father had felt all those year ago after his sister's death.

Finally understood the full weight of guilt. Failure.

He let Sammy and Dean take comfort in each other that night, he ignored his sons, and they were happy to do the same, already knowing that something was different, that something had changed.

He drove them up to their Uncle Mike's place, and stayed there for almost a year before he moved them again, settling finally in a run-down little apartment right on the out-skirts of Kansas. They were close to many bad neighborhoods, but John couldn't find it in his heart to care.

The same night that Sam and Dean had started relaying solely on each other, had started taking care of one another, John had started looking somewhere else for that sort of comfort. Unwilling to find it within the confines of his own family.

He had, in remembrance of his father, picked up a bottle of whiskey and never put it down. He stopped living his life after that. In his mind, it was all flashes of pain, recollections of what could have been, what had been. Nightmares and a need to get away. Escape.

He knew he was mean to his sons, but the details were perpetually lost, foggy and not thought about. He held onto the specifics of his job because they were easier, more generic; there were no emotions tied to the life of a truck driver. Perhaps that was why he picked it.

The less he was around his sons, the better. They reminded him of his wife. He saw Mary in them, and he couldn't deal with that. So he stayed close to his old friend Mr. Whiskey bottle when he was around them.

Because it was always better to be numb.

And because that way, when he heard Sammy crying and Dean shushing him, fear evident in his voice, John could stay downstairs, and pretend not to hear it. He could get lost somewhere in his own mind and make like none of it was real.

It was better that way

* * *

Sam struggled against his father's firm grip, but there was simply no getting away, no running and hiding. No Dean there to protect him.

John Winchester had his too-skinny eleven-year-old son's shirt grasped so firmly in his fist that he was actually lifting him off the ground. He heard Sam gasp for air, but he ignored it, tightening his grip even more.

Anger coursed through him unchecked. This was why he didn't come home for months at a time. He hated seeing that fear reflected so clearly in Mary's eyes. Because Sam's eyes were Mary's, they'd been hers first; and he felt angrier still at that knowledge, and the unfairness of it.

"You know how she died?" John rasped through clenched teeth, not liking that her eyes could shine so brightly when she'd been dead for so long.

Sam shook his head back and forth frantically, obviously wanting to get away. John didn't want him to get away, he wanted Sam to know.

"Above your bed." He hissed, images form that night dancing clearly through his mind's eye. He faced those mental flashbacks every damn day of his pathetic life -it was about time someone else helped him carry the burden of them. "She died above _your _bed. Protecting _you_. You're such an ungrateful little brat, you don't even care."

Sam shook his head again. "No...I-I...I do..."

John raised his hand without much thought and backhanded his son harshly; watching as Sam's head whipped to the side and a cut on his lower lip was formed. He knew he wasn't supposed to hit him there - knew that evidence was bad.

It was like hiding the beer cans and pill bottles from his boss every time he checked in. If they weren't there, then they really didn't exist, and the same logic applied to his boys. But he didn't care.

Everything was muddled and unfocused and all he could feel for sure was rage. So much rage.

Sam's head stayed down, but a whimper sounded and John heard the word that his youngest son had certainly spoken subconsciously. "Dean?" H asked ludicrously. "You think Dean can help you? Dean's a weak little bastard, just like you." He stopped, watching Sam's head shake back and forth. "But Dean's not a murderer."

"I d-din't, I didn't kill her." Sam said solidly, and when he raised his eyes to meet his father's again, he saw something mixed in with the fear. He saw confidence. "Dean told me it wasn't my fault."

"What the fuck does Dean know?" John hissed, not liking the way his own voice was breaking.

"More than you."

John backhanded him again without thinking about it. "You're such an insubordinate little brat! I should teach you how to really follow orders. The stuff they teach in the goddamn Marines. You think you could handle that, boy?"

Something in John answered his own question with - yes; he could, as long as Dean was there. But he refused to listen to that. What did the little voice in the back of his head know?

Then he let Sam go. His head was pounding and Sam's muffled whimpers were jabbing away at it torturously, so he unclenched the ratty t-shirt and stumbled away. He barely even registered his son's body quivering dangerously as his knees threatened to give out, he just backed away from him until he reached the couch.

He searched through the pockets of his previously discarded jacket until he found the half-emptied bottle he was looking for. Removing the lid quickly he popped back two of the little white pills, chasing them down with a mouthful of whiskey. The burn that he was searching for reached his insides and calmed him slightly.

"What the hell are you staring at?" He shot in Sam's direction, not taking notice of how he held on tightly to the stair banister, looking deathly frightened.

A frantically shaking head and wide eyes answered him as John sat on the couch heavily, waiting for these pills to do their particular job. "Then go away."

Sam complied without a second thought, dashing up the stairs, disappearing from sight.

Even as John's eyes started to drift shut, he could feel the pills and the alcohol begin taking away the details of the evening. Sam had been there, and he had been angry, and he had once again been a horrible father. The details were lost though - there in a dreamlike way - everything was fake. That's what the drugs did for him.

They took everything away and assured that he could keep living. A lost, foggy, zoned-out life, but it was still life, _his _life, one he could lay claim to.

Even though sometimes he felt like he didn't deserve that much, didn't deserve anything. When he thought about what Mary might say if she could see him now. How disappointed she'd be, how disgusted, with the man her husband had turned into.

Only when thoughts like that struck, he just swallowed more drugs, got more lost. Fought with his rapidly beating heart and closed up throat, telling himself that everything would be better momentarily.

Then he shut his eyes and everything got lost again.

* * *

"Sammy!" Dean's frantic cry was as loud as it could be without waking the, undoubtedly still knocked out, John Winchester.

Sam wanted to answer, but found that his voice cracked slightly when he tried, so he just waited patiently, sitting on the floor next to his bed, facing away form the door; his knees were drawn up to his chest and blood from his swollen lip penetrated his jeans.

He waited for Dean to find him, because he knew that he would. Dean would always be around to find him.

And as if his thoughts had conjured him, moments later his big brother was on his knees at his side. "Sammy, Sam look at me."

His tone was so desperate - Sam had no choice but to comply. When he saw the total, unmasked fear coating his brother's face, he felt guilty for not having responded sooner.

Quickly Dean changed his position so that he was in front of Sam, still on his knees, grasping his shoulders firmly. "Are you okay?" Even as he said it, his hand was going Sam's bloody lip. "God, what did he do?"

"It could have been worse." Sam found himself saying. "I just got home at the wrong time, you know? I should have noticed the car."

"It was parked across the street," Dean said distractedly, still fiddling with Sam's face. "I'm gonna go get a washcloth for this, alright?"

Sam nodded shortly and pulled his knees tighter against his chest while Dean was across the hall. God, how familiar this seemed. Whenever their father was around, Sam thought, Dean always ended up playing the role of his protector.

Sam didn't like that it had to happen that way. He hated the fear he had towards his father, hated John for putting it there. Sam hated that he was weaker than his brother too, because Dean was the one that took care of everything. Of their money problem, the house, the school stuff, of Sam himself; Dean did it all, and Sam was beginning to feel like a weak burden.

"There," Dean mumbled, returning to his position in front of him, sitting cross-legged and placing the damp cloth on Sam's split bottom lip. "It'll be okay."

Sam really wished he could believe that. "No it won't."

Dean bit his own lip and looked at Sam with concern, the younger boy realized that he hadn't been speaking much, and perhaps it was beginning to worry his elder brother.

"Yes it will." He insisted. "I'll make sure..."

"You can't," Sam broke in, feeling pathetically close to tears. "You can't make dad go away, can you? You can't stop him from..." he trailed off, shaking his head. "You can't bring mom back."

"Sammy..." Dean's voice sounded broken, but Sam refused to meet his eyes, focusing instead on the fabric of his jeans and how his blood had soaked into them, undoubtedly staining them permanently.

Dean kept talking, saying words that made no sense in Sam's mind. For some reason, all he could think about was his stupid pants, and how they were one of the only good, warm pairs he had, and now he wouldn't be able to wear them to school because they had blood on them.

"Geez, kiddo, will you at least listen to me?" Dean removed the cool cloth, flipping it over and applying more pressure, effectively regaining Sam's attention.

"I am listening," he said automatically.

"Then what did I just say?" His voice held challenge.

Sam just kept looking away, somehow drawing even farther into himself, "Sorry," he mumbled, because he hadn't been listening to Dean. Not by a long shot.

His older brother sighed, before grabbing Sam's chin and finally forcing his to meet his eyes. "Hey, listen to me. I'm not mad." And Sam believed him, because Dean never got mad at Sam, not really. But that never stopped Sam from feeling bad. "Why don't you tell me what you were thinking about, huh?"

His tone was gentle and Sam knew enough to know that that wasn't how older brothers were supposed to talk to you. Older siblings - by the definitions of his classmates - existed for the sole purpose of driving you absolutely nuts; they beat you up, steal your things, make fun of you, and then - for some inexplicable reason - defend you and beat up bullies for you, only to go home and steal your dessert.

This is what Sam had been hearing other kids say all his life; but Dean never did any of those things. He didn't have to beat up Sam - even in a kidding around kind of way - because that's what their father was there for. He didn't steal Sam's things, because most of the things he had, Dean had gotten for him, or they needed to share.

Dean never said a mean word to him, because nothing could really top your own father drilling it into your head that you're responsible for the death of the mother you don't even remember. He did beat up bullies for him, but a couple mean sixth graders somehow seemed to always pale in comparison to Dean protecting him from their dad. And they didn't often have dessert to be stolen.

So when Sam heard the other kids talking about their home lives, he heard Dean's long ago words echo through his brain.

_Our life isn't normal, Sammy. You can't tell anyone about the way we live, it'd be dangerous. People would come and take us away. Away from each other._

When he'd first started school and Dean had sat him down and said all that, it had terrified Sam enough to ensure that he would never utter a word about his home life. Not a single syllable, because being taken away from Dean was the worst thing he could imagine back then.

In fact, it still was. Sam knew their lives weren't normal - didn't even come close to resembling it - and he knew his brother wasn't your typical older sibling. He found in Dean what most of his classmates seemed to think existed in moms and dads.

_My mom used to tuck me in at night. Read me stories and stay with me until I fell asleep after I had a nightmare. _They'd say.

That's what Dean had done for Sam. Dean was the one he had always run to, to make the monsters in his subconscious recede during the late night hours.

_Me and my dad play football in our backyard. My dad taught me how to throw a curb ball last year, I bet I could beat you in a game of baseball_. They'd all brag.

But Sam was okay with that, because Dean was better at sports than all of them, and when Sam got a little bigger - grew into himself, as Dean said - he'd be able to really play with his big brother, to put the stuff Dean had taught him already to good use.

Yes, Dean was so much more than just a typical big brother. But there were some things even Dean couldn't control.

"I hate dad." Sam finally said, but refused to look at Dean once the words were out. "I hate him for hurting us, I hate that... I hate that we can't be normal, because of him." Sam finally lifted his head, meeting Dean's sad expression. "I just want us to be normal."

And when Dean reached forward and pulled Sam into a hug, the younger boy didn't resist, didn't even think about pulling away. Because he needed the comfort. He didn't know what role Dean was fulfilling right now - father, mother, older brother - he couldn't tell, and didn't want to. Because no matter what it was, he was still Dean. Still capable of making everything bad and evil in the entire world disappear.

"I hate him, too" Sam heard the words, and wasn't surprised; he thought that he'd probably known that for a long, long time. It was just one of those things that he never wanted to think about. "I swear, Sammy..." his speaking was louder, and Sam knew that he was supposed to listen to this part. "I _will _get us away from him one day."

"How?" Sam choked, not wanting to get his hopes up, but believing Dean because there was nothing else he could do.

"I don't know yet," the older boy admitted, stroking Sam's long hair softy, and probably subconsciously. "But I will, I swear. I'll take care of you. Of us."

Sam responded by tightening his grip on his older brother, letting the bloodstained washcloth - remembrance of the pain his father so often caused- fall away. "Promise?" He whispered into Dean's shoulder.

His big brother didn't need a single second to think about it. "Yeah, Sammy. I promise."

Tbc...

* * *

Review! 


	7. Feel the new wind of change

Title: On The Turning Away

Author: Oldach's Dream

Summary: Dean would do anything to keep his little brother safe and healthy. He would provide for him, no matter what the cost. They didn't need their father. Not today, not ever. AU, what if they'd had Max's childhood? Angst and Smarm.

Disclaimer: I own nothing of Supernatural. Really, do you think I would end a season like that?

Rating: T

A/N: Sorry about the delay of posting with this fic, I've been distracted. But now that I've finished Blackbird, and the season is over (They got hit by a semi! So did not see that coming! Monumentally brilliant) anyway, I'll be focusing more on this story now.

I mention a few things in this chapter that may need clarification. **Drug references ahead.** I'm just going to assume everyone knows what marijuana is; other names include reefer, pot, and weed. You smoke joints and buy blunts. Purple haze is just _really_ strong marijuana (much like hydro), and you can easily get high off a hit or two of it, so trust me, that part isn't unrealistic. Everything I mention about drug scandals is from information I've gotten out of newspaper articles and stories I've heard.

I'm hoping to make this all realistic and I'm sorry if you can't picture them in this situation. It's not the main focus of the story anyway so don't get disappointed if it's not your thing. More issues are to come, I promise. Oh, and I what I say about the law and them living on their own, I made that up entirely so I have no idea if that has any basis in reality.

All that having been said…I hope this chapter was the wait, and I'll stop blambering now.

* * *

Chapter Seven: Feel the new wind of change

"Okay Sammy," Dean started again. "On the count of three, ready?"

"Yeah already," The impatient fourteen-year-old panted. "Just go."

And Dean did, jabbing out his right fist, keeping his left tucked safely in front on his abdomen, he watched as Sam expertly ducked the assault, flinging out his own arm to push his brother's offending one away, while simultaneously using his right hand to jab at Dean.

The elder, more experienced brother, ducked easily, and used Sam's open space to take a swipe at his stomach, expecting to make contact with bony flesh and earn the opportunity to show his brother why leaving yourself unguarded was a bad idea, but he underestimated the scrawny youth.

Sammy ducked out of the way just in time, using his obnoxiously long legs to his advantage, and - for the first time Dean could recall - he used his height as a weapon, ducking down and around his older brother, and nailing him in the back with a sharp elbow strike.

Dean took the hit in stride, grunting only marginally, letting it push him forward, away from Sam, so he could spin around and duck lower, aiming another shot at Sam's midsection, where almost any attacker would strike on someone who was taller than them, but Sam anticipated the move, and used Dean's leverage, and a cleverly placed foot, to make him fall.

Dean would have hit the ground hard, had Sam's hand not flung out and attached itself to his elbow, lessening the blow of his ass to the grass, but pulling at the shoulder socket uncomfortably.

Far from actually trying to help Dean, Sam swung a leg over his brother's body and got down low, pinning his upper arm against Dean's neck – albeit not hard enough to actually cut off air, just apply a bit of pressure – and took a few ragged breaths.

Only when Dean ceased struggling and let his body fall limp, did Sam allow himself the pleasure of grinning like an idiot.

"Gottcha." He said triumphantly.

"Great for you," Dean bit out. "Ya gonna move your ass anytime soon, this is starting to look really wrong."

Sam took the comment in stride. "Trust me bro, you 'aint my type," he paused, still grinning. "Say it."

"Sam…" Dean whined, irritation laced with exhaustion tinged subtly with embarrassment.

"No way," he shook his head, hair flying, and maintained his grip on the elder man. "You made me say it every time. Say it."

"You know this was a fluke, right?" Dean dodged, "I'm tired, you're tall…" he rolled his eyes at his brother's expectant, if not slightly entertained, face. "Fine," he finally sighed. "I give. Uncle, you got me. Uncle."

Sam's grin widened, and Dean felt a bit of his bad mood fade away at seeing his little brother so happy, and he waited a few seconds, letting Sam's triumphant mood fester a bit, before pushing the taller boy off him, and rolling up into a sitting position.

He took a few deep breaths of his own, and watched as Sam took a seat near him, drawing his legs up and resting his arms on them, in a splayed out, comfortable fashion.

"You didn't let me win, did ya?" Sam asked immediately, and Dean wasn't all that shocked. For almost a year and a half, he'd been teaching his little brother self-defense moves, and sparring with him regularly everyday. In all that time, Sam had not once bested his older brother.

"Nah," Dean assured, still taking deep breaths, picking aimlessly at the grass around him. "I told you, it was a fluke."

"You're tired." Sam repeated the words and Dean nodded, not meeting his brother's eyes, until Sam swiped out his arm and nudged Dean's shoulder. "What's up man?"

Dean wasn't at all surprised that Sam had noticed his less than normal behavior of late. It wasn't that anything was actually going on…exactly, he assured himself; he hadn't been keeping secrets, Dean had just had a lot of stuff on his mind the last few days – more so than usual. He tried to hide it though, shrugging his shoulder absently and answering Sam with a casual tone. "Nothin', I'm all right."

"Liar," Sam shot immediately and met his brother's eyes steadily when Dean tried to stare him down. "You've been in a funk lately, come on, tell me what's up."

Dean just stared, portraying clearly exasperation and impatience.

"Oh, stop with the death glare," Sam rolled his eyes, never having been intimated by the elder man, not even when Dean was _really _trying to be frightening did Sam feel threatened by him. It was something Dean was eternally grateful for most days, but sometimes - like right now - he wished he had just a little say in the matter. One precise glare that might get Sam off his back was all he was asking for; but that's the way life was, he supposed. Give and take.

"Do I have to guess?" Sam continued, seemingly unaware of his brother's oddly complex thoughts on the matter at hand. "Fine," he said, mock exasperated, after a few silent seconds. "Does it have anything to do with school?"

"Are we playing twenty questions now?" Dean mocked. "Let me go. Is it bigger than a bread box?"

"Dean..." Sam trailed off, trying to make it sound like a warning.

"Animal, mineral or vegetable?" He continued, disregarding the tone entirely. The fear thing worked both ways.

"Come on, man," Sam pleaded, and Dean couldn't stop from chuckling.

"Come on nothing," he said lightly. "Nothing's going on."

"That's a load of crap." The younger boy said easily.

"No," Dean insisted, "Nothing's going on," he paused slightly and Sam waited him out, just as Dean knew he would. That boy had a patience level beyond comprehension. "I've just...I've been thinking about some stuff lately."

"Like what?" He inquired, trying to keep his tone light, yet feeling - just like Dean- that something had shifted, a more serious mood had infiltrated the safety of their brotherly bickering.

"It's almost May," he said, trying to think of the right words to have this conversation with, and not really finding any. He'd never been overly articulate.

Sam shook his head slowly back and forth, trying to look bemused but not quite pulling it off. "And...?"

"And..." Dean took a deep breath and decided to just go for it. A swan dive into the deep end, he thought might be an appropriate metaphor. "And I'm gonna be eighteen in June."

Sam bit the side of his lip and shifted his attention immediately away from Dean, and over instead to the small clumps of people enjoying this beautiful Saturday afternoon on the other side of the park, he watched as they lit their barbeques and romped around with their dogs, little children were running around, excitedly playing tag.

The Winchester's seemed so separated from all that, Dean thought absently as he followed his brother's gaze; even when it was physically only a couple dozen feet away, the normality surrounding those families and their lives was something that the brother's had only ever experienced second hand, from a distance.

Dean knew that Sam would get what he was hinting at when he brought up his age, his little brother wasn't dense. Far from it, actually; as the years had passed, Sam's intelligence had grown monumentally, academically surpassing his brother, and almost every other person in his grade, by the age of thirteen.

Last year, the school had even wanted to bump his little brother up a grade or two - depending on how well he did on the placement tests - but Sam had refused. Explaining to his brother that he didn't want to feel like even more of an outsider than he already did, and Dean - while he respected Sam's decision - was secretly disappointed, and perplexed. If he had been offered the opportunity to get out of school years early, he'd have taken it in a heartbeat.

At fourteen, Sam was a soon to be sophomore, flying through his classes with ease, and had a maturity level that most people hit somewhere in their mid-thirties - if that. And Dean was still the most prominent roll model in the kid's life - like it or not - and he always tried his hardest to make sure Sam got to be as normal as possible.

Which was why he really didn't want to have this conversation.

"You wanna get outta here." Sam finally said softly. It wasn't a question, it didn't have to be. This had been the plan for years.

"_I _will _get us away from him one day." _

"_How?" Sam choked, not wanting to get his hopes up, but believing Dean because there was nothing else he could do._

"_I don't know yet," the older boy admitted, stroking Sam's long hair softy, and probably subconsciously. "But I will, I swear. I'll take care of you. Of us."_

_Sam responded by tightening his grip on his older brother, letting the bloodstained washcloth - remembrance of the pain his father so often caused- fall away. "Promise?" He whispered into Dean's shoulder._

_His big brother didn't need a single second to think about it. "Yeah, Sammy. I promise."_

Sam remembered the words from years ago, when Dean had been the same age Sam was now, he remembered also, the conversation that had followed that night as they lie in bed next to each other, listening intently for the drunken noises their father sometimes made - the warning signs that came before the late night fights.

"_How?" Sam whispered again, not wanting to risk making any sound louder than that. _

"_How what, Sammy?" Dean questioned just as softly, his hands were folded behind his head comfortably and Sam fiddled with the threadbare blanket._

"_How are you gonna get us away?" He knew he had asked before just hours ago, but he thought, perhaps, in the space of that time, Dean had figured it out._

"_I..." It sounded at first like Dean was going to repeat himself, but changed his mind halfway through. He sighed and Sam regretted asking, he should have just kept quiet, trusted the older boy. But his brother answered all the same, seeming to just figure it out as he started talking. "We're gonna run away."_

_Sam's eyes widened in the dark. "How?" He sounded torn between fright and awe - he couldn't see his brother's proud smirk, but he sensed it in his next words._

"_One day, we're going to pack up everything we want to keep from here, I'm gonna get a car, and we're gonna take off, just leave. Screw dad." He predicted his brother's immediate concern about the older man._

"_One day?" Sam asked, feeling comforted by the thought._

"_Yeah," Dean's voice had a hopeful edge to it. "Someday, I promise."_

It had been the first of many conversations on the matter. Some coming in desperation as it first had that night, others presenting themselves in moments of complete and utter clarity - planed out carefully and with detail.

Nearly four years later, Dean was bringing it up once again - and this time for real.

"You know I do, Sammy." Dean said softly. "I can't be here anymore."

Dean had the guilt of death resting on his shoulders, and a myriad of things reminded him of that every single day. It had been less than a year ago when Chance had died, and the details still haunted him. A drug deal gone wrong - Dean shifted through the remnants of recollections from the event with an ease that scared him.

"_This'll be the easiest grand you ever made, kid." Chance sported a dazed little smile, but Dean was focused of the sadistic looking Alan, who was lurking quietly in the background of the apartment. _

"_Here," he said a few minutes later, approaching Dean with a fat joint. "Take a hit."_

_In a moment of weakness - fear, more accurately, fear that if he didn't do what Alan told him, he'd end up hurt or dead - Dean had accepted the drugs. Smoked the weed, which turned out to be not just marijuana, but purple haze; and three deeply inhaled breaths later, Dean was trippin'. He kept smoking after that, unable to stop himself, until he felt like he was going to be sick - then they left for the job._

At the age seventeen Dean had been happily employed at a nice Auto Body Shop; located right on the edge of town, Hector's Tow and Repair Palace had everything Dean could have ever wanted in a job.

It mixed his love of automobiles with a handsome salary and convenient hours - ones that worked perfectly around school and his little brother - he was even working on fixing up his own car, a rusted - believed to be unsalvageable - hunk of metal that Laura, his boss, had let him keep for nothing, if he promised to get it away from the garage.

Ever since he was a freshman, he'd been taking jobs from Alan and Chance. Nothing major or dangerous, just a run here, or a pick-up there. It was such easy money, and as safe as drug dealing could be. He told himself it would all end when he got a real job – but it didn't. It was just too simple. Dean had become spoiled, too used to the ease of it. The false sense of security.

Until the night when it all went wrong.

_Dean had never been high before - well, maybe second handedly, from when he was hanging around in Alan's apartment - but never like this. He was in a fog, disconnected from everything around him; he'd turn one way and he'd be in one world, turn again and be in another. He was flying high and barely thinking. _

_Somehow - with Chance, in that fog - they managed to make it to the apartment where they were supposed to pick up the money for one of Alan's most recent investments._

Dean would never know for sure if it was because he was high, or because of the shock, but he recalled the rest of the night...oddly. It was forever in his memory, yet the scenes of the actual events were blurry. Faded, as if from some old black and white movie that he had seen long ago and couldn't quite remember the details of.

Some moments stuck out more than others, and some faded entirely. But in the metaphor of the memory being a movie, he may have flickering snaps of the pictures and sequences themselves, but he had read the transcript. Memorized the damn thing against his will, and he knew exactly what had happened that night.

_Chance knocked on the door, and was greeted with the barrel of a gun. These guys got down to business pretty freakin' quick, was the only thing Dean could think. He listened as dialogue was spoken. _

They were words he knew through memorization, but would never be able to link to the voices of those guys.

"_What the fuck do you want?" The taller one snapped, he wasn't holding the gun._

"_Alan wants his six thousand." Chance was no doubt repeating the line that had been fed to him time and time again by the man in question. Dean himself had been frozen to the spot, incapable of movement. _

_The impending, threatening situation had killed his buzz as much as possible, but couldn't affectively erase the physical remnants of the drugs. He felt a little like he was in a movie, or some sort of really bad play. _

"_Tell Alan to go screw himself." The one holding the gun, a short, fat Puerto Rican man who could probably pass for a hobo in the right circumstance had the deepest voice Dean had ever heard._

"_I don't…" Chance's gulp was audible. "I don't want any trouble. I'm just the messenger."_

_The short man chuckled demonically. "Here that, Frankie?" he nudged the other man, "Them's is just the messenger's."_

_He chuckled right through the firing of the gun, laughed when he pulled back the smoking weapon and stuck it in his waistband with practiced ease. Dean watched as Chance's chest wound spewed blood everywhere; eyes fixed as his body hit the moldy carpeting of the apartment's hallway. _

_Was still focused on it – at a complete loss – when the fat man snapped his fingers in front of Dean's face. _

"_You go tell Alan that I ain't got nothin' to lose no more," He ordered. "And you tell him that that's goin' be him - " he gestured to Chance's…corps "And you kid – if he don't stop messin' 'round."_

_Dean nodded without the awareness that he was doing so. His gaze was still on Chance, whose eyes were opened wide in shock. _

_That was the first time Dean had ever seen death up close before. The first and the last, if he had any say in the matter._

Dean remembered it all so clearly, watched it again night after night. One wrong word, a simple reversal of roles, and it could have been Dean who'd been killed by the illegal immigrant. It could have been Dean's body that was labeled by police as the 'Small player in a much larger, ongoing, drug ring.'

It could have been Chance that had walked back to Alan in a daze – but that's not how it played out, and the eldest Winchester brother was the one who arrived back at the apartment and accurately delivered the message of the Puerto Rican man.

Dean was the one covered in blood – he'd dropped to his knees as soon as Frankie closed the door behind the murderer – trying to save Chance, and realizing all too late that it was impossible, that the older teen was, in fact, dead.

It was Dean who stumbled back home in a drugged up, shocked haze. Dean who had probably scarred his brother for life.

Sam disapproved of Dean's involvement with Chance and Alan, and was comforted only by the fact that his brother never lied to him about it. At thirteen, Sam trusted that his brother knew what he was doing, trusted that Dean could control everything.

Until he stumbled home that night, smelling of smoke and blood. Failure and death.

"Dean?" Sam questioned softly as the older boy stood in the doorway of the bedroom unmoving. The only light shone from the small lamp on the bedside table that Sam had been using to read by.

_Book discarded, the light cast an eerie glow over everything now._

"_Sammy," his voice sounded hoarse, and Sam moved cautiously, getting only as far as the edge of the mattress._

"_Hey…what's the matter?"_

_Long moments of silence before comprehension dawned, "I messed up, Sammy. I messed up bad."_

"_Dean…" the younger boy watched as his brother braced himself against the wall with a single hand, seemingly unable to move._

_He watched as Dean slid to the floor, no longer cable of holding his own weight._

"_I screwed up, Sammy." He repeated, hitting the floor, pulling his knees to his chest tightly and wrapping his arms around them. "I screwed up. I screwed up…" he was rocking back and forth slightly._

_Sam was up and out of the bed, approaching his brother slowly, afraid that any sudden movement might startle him. The younger boy had never seen his brother in such a state, so disconnected…so out of it. Never before had Dean seemed this vulnerable._

_As Sam got closer – close enough to crouch down in front of him – the smell of drugs became more and more prominent. The thirteen year old was smart, and quickly pieced together the fragments of what had most likely happened that evening._

It would be days before he got the story in full, but right then, it didn't matter.

He placed his hand on his brother's shoulder comfortingly and repeated the same soothing words that Dean had always used on him so many times in the past. "It'll be okay, everything'll be okay."

_He felt wrong saying it - like a little kid playing dress up in situations that were much too big for him – this wasn't what he was supposed to be doing._

"_I screwed everything up." He kept repeating the phrase, and it was the only coherent thing to leave his mouth the entire night. Nothing resembling an explanation was offered by the older man._

_But that was okay. All Sam needed to know was that his brother needed him – and by the way he latched onto his arm when Sam tried to get up a few moments later, that seemed to be a given – so he moved over, and sat down next to him._

_The Winchester brother's sat like that until the sun came up and forced a sense of reality back into their world. They sat like that, side to side; with Sam's arm around his brother's shoulders – an occasional mumbling breaking through the silence of the night – until Dean got up, stumbled into the bathroom and puked his guts out._

_They stayed like that until they both felt safe enough to move again. Secure enough to face the world. A feat neither would have accomplished had they not had each other._

Dean watched his brother now and knew that Sammy was remembering that night. Recalling how messed up his brother had been, how scared he must have been, to see Dean like that.

Never before had Dean acted that weak in front of Sam, and never, did he intend to again. That's why he had to do this, had to move on once and for all.

"Right after school lets out," Dean offered. "We can pack up and get outta here for good. No more dad comin' home and using us as his own personal punching bag. No more messed up drug scandals."

"Where would we go?" The question had been breached many times before, never had a solid location been agreed on.

"There are some nice neighborhoods with pretty cheap apartments up in Boston," Dean recalled the information he had researched on the matter. "Philly too," he added. "Maine. But I can't remember what cities anymore."

Sam nodded, digesting the answers, realizing that - after all this time – they weren't just dreaming anymore. "I'd have to stay outta school for a year though, right?"

Dean cringed; he'd never liked this part. "Law says that if we look after ourselves for a year, an entire year, we're legally emancipated. Well, you are anyway. Before that… if dad tried to find us or the school caught on…"

"We'd end up right back here." Sam finished.

"Yeah." Dean said, and waited while a multitude of conflicted looks passed over Sam's features.

"On the bright side, though," Dean went on, unable to wait out the silence. "You're smart enough to pick up right where you belong. You can just do sophomore year at home."

"Or I could get a job." He tried.

"I wouldn't want to risk that," Dean protested at once.

"Yeah…" he trailed off, still lost in thought. Countless minutes later, he spoke again, "You really think we can pull this off?"

"Maybe," Dean shrugged. "Maybe not. But I'm willing to try."

Sam nodded, a look of determination offsetting all others now. "So am I."

And that's all Dean had wanted to hear for months. "Are you sure?" He spoke firmly. "Because if we do this…we're running away,"

"Yeah, I caught onto that." He interjected sarcastically.

"And there's no way to just…change your mind halfway through." He ignored the barb. "It's not a decision you can just make and take back."

"I've been wanting this for years, Dean." Sam assured, small smile gracing his features. "It's what I want."

And its what he wanted for his brother, Dean saw clearly that Sam was thinking about him in his decision-making. He knew he should feel guilty, and refuse to move on with the subject until they'd discussed all of Sam's personal fears and hesitations on the matter.

Honestly though, Dean just wasn't willing to risk that. And maybe it was selfish, but seeing Chance die that night, having been caught up in something so largely illegal for so long…it changed the elder Winchester brother. Made him look at the world differently.

Everything was a trap, everyone was a liar. Everything they were involved with was a potential threat, a danger to him and his brother. Getting away from their father was a given, but now Dean also possessed the determination to get away from the tiny Kansas town that had been a hiding place for a gang of illegal drug lords for years.

A gang that had killed Chance and Alan, driven the rest of Alan's gang far away, and ended up dead or on death row, manslaughter charges and police aided riots had changed everything.

Dean had never known the extent of what had been going on with Alan – and he doubted Chance had either – he just knew he never trusted the man. Never had he expected it to turn out the way it did. Never before did he posses legitimate fears that the cops might come to his door and arrest him for taking part in Alan's deals.

Thus far the police hadn't identified him as a player in the ongoing scandal – his part was so small it was unlikely they even cared – but the risk was still there, and it was a risk he was unwilling to take with his little brother constantly by his side.

"We have to get out of here." Sam echoed his thoughts and Dean knew he was fooling himself by thinking his brother didn't understand the full importance of that truth. It wasn't just about their dad anymore. Not by a long shot.

"Yeah, we do, Sammy." It had been exactly seven months since Chance's murder – seven months too long for them to be hanging around an ongoing police investigation.

"Then we'll go." Sam said as if it were that simple, as if the complications would be that minimal, overlooked with ease.

Dean's look was darker; he saw not the simplicity and freedom that this decision would present them with, but the hardships they would undoubtedly face because of it. He saw the price of their escape, the possibility of it all coming crashing down around them. He saw the potential of failure. Because he had learned the hard way – every decision had a price.

Then he looked over at his little brother, whose eyes were shining with hope and trust and an all around confidence that Dean knew the younger man had placed in him. He knew then, with that look, that as long as the cost of this decision wasn't Sammy's innocence, as long as they cpuld remain safe and untouched,that it was a risk he was willing to take.

* * *

TBC… 

There you have it. Feedback is crucial. I'd love to know what it is you guys would like to see happen with this – ideas welcome! Reviews fuel the writing process!


	8. It’s not enough just to stand and stare

Title: On The Turning Away

Author: Oldach's Dream

Summary: Dean would do anything to keep his little brother safe and healthy. He would provide for him, no matter what the cost. They didn't need their father. Not today, not ever. AU, what if they'd had Max's childhood? Angst and Smarm.

Disclaimer: Don't own a thing.

Rating: T

A/N: Okay, I know its been forever. I have no excuse other than good old fashioned writer's block. Just with this story, though. I know exactly where I want it to go, I'm just having some issues getting it there. An unfortunate side affect of that happens to be that this chapter is mostly filler. It explains where they're living now and parts of their lives, but it doesn't really have much of a plot...again, this story is just being incredibly frustrating, and I apologize if this chapter sucks. I appreciate all those who stick with it and me - and continue to read and leave your thoughts. Seriously, it will get better.

* * *

It's not enough just to stand and stare

"You're absolutely positive this landlord thinks we're both eighteen?" Sam's words broke through the silence of the Impala - yet again.

"_Yes."_ Dean barked. "Stop asking."

"I'm just trying to be safe," Sam snapped. "You know, this isn't exactly legal."

"No friggin' shit, trust me, I..."

"Yeah, yeah, I know, you're all knowing when it comes to illegal activities. But this isn't exactly the same thing as dealing drugs." Sam's tone was attempted factual, but he was speaking much too fast, and at too high of a pitch to actually pull it off.

Any other day, Dean might have sensed his little brother's nerves and reacted accordingly with patience and reassurance, but he had tried that the first five dozen times Sam had initiated this sort of conversation, and it was getting him no where.

Frankly, they had been driving non-stop for nearly ten hours, it was nearing four in the afternoon and the sun was beating down on the un-air-conditioned Impala, he was sick and tired of sitting in the same position - all in all, Dean's patience had been discarded somewhere near the Illinois state border.

"I know it's not, Sam!" He shouted. "Don't you think I know how dangerous this is? You're the one who said you wanted to run away, you're the one's been insisting on it since..."

"Of course I have," Sam cut him off. "Did _you _really wanna stick around Kansas and wait for dad to show up again? 'Cause I was getting kinda sick of being his punching bag!"

"I know," Dean gritted, "That's why we're getting away."

"And I just wanna make sure we actually _do _get away," Sam continued to rant. "Having the landlord call the cops on us our first night in Boston would kinda suck, don't you think?"

"No one's calling the cops," Dean was exasperated, and his brother's constant nagging was beginning to make him nervous. "I've got everything under control. Just quit worrying."

"Quit worrying?" Sam sounded ludicrous, "How the hell am I supposed to quit..."

"Then just shut up." Dean snapped. "Just...stop talking."

"Fine," Sam huffed. He crossed his arms and turned to look out the passenger side window.

Dean felt marginally guilty for his harsh words, yet couldn't stop himself from basking in the silence the car now offered. He could hear the wind rushing past them, right on the other side of the closed window. He could see clearly the strips of highway disappearing under the Impala's wheels.

Dean hadn't felt proud of anything in a long, long time. After failing for years in the simple act of protecting his little brother, then proceeding on to a life of crime. A life that had gotten an innocent guy killed and put him and Sam at an even higher risk of danger...what was there to be proud of, really?

But fixing up this Impala, knowing that if anything went wrong with it, he'd be able to fix it, with little or no help from anybody - that was a good feeling. To be dependent on nobody - that was a safe feeling. Using her as a getaway car of sorts, the thing that would take him and Sammy to their new life - well that was just a miraculous bonus.

* * *

Another hour passed before either brother spoke again.

"I think we should stop for the day," Dean said into the silence, and when Sam shrugged, he went on. "Get some dinner, stop at a motel for the night. If we get an early start tomorrow, we should be able to make it to Boston by this time tomorrow."

"Whatever," Sam shrugged again.

Dean groaned out loud. "Seriously, little brother, now is really not the time for an adolescent mood swing."

"I'm not being moody." He countered at once, sounding insulted at the description of his current state.

"Then what's with the brooding?"

"You told me to shut up," Sam said simply. "I was just doing what you asked."

"Well stop it." Dean snapped. "You know that's not what I meant."

"No, I don't" Sam sounded angry again, which to the eldest Winchester, was rather relieving. "What'd you mean?"

"I meant, stop asking questions." He snapped.

"You're the one who told me to always ask questions." Sam pointed out.

"Well, then stop asking the same ones over and over again." Dean clarified. "The answers aren't gonna be different."

Sam bit his lip and shifted his gaze to his lap. Dean waited. "I just... I don't wanna go back to Kansas. I wanna make sure that we don't have to go back."

"We won't." Dean's tone was simple. "You've got to trust me on that."

"I know," Sam sighed. "I do. I guess...I just wish there was more I could do."

Dean sighed. It hadn't occurred to him before now how helpless Sammy must feel in this current predicament. He was too young to do anything concrete to aid the escape process, and he was too old to not be thoroughly invested in what was going on. Hell, he wasn't even old enough to drive yet. Although he was getting there in height.

"You could pull out a map and tell me what exit is gonna get us to a motel and a restaurant." Dean suggested.

"Exit 73, Burke road. Five miles off the main exit ramp is a Denny's, two miles past that is a Motel 6." Sam didn't even pretend to open the glove compartment and pull out the road map.

Dean actually did a double take. "And you know that, how?"

"It was on the last sign we passed," he shrugged. "Burke road isn't technically the closest, but I don't feel like eating at McDonalds."

"We haven't passed one of those signs in almost..." Dean struggled to grasp a number, time tended to allude him while he was driving.

"Half an hour," Sam shrugged again. "I just noticed it."

"And memorized it." Dean threw in, shaking his head. "My little brother the genius."

"Shut up," Sam grumbled, turning away from him again, only in a much more welcome way.

Dean's smirk grew to its full potential. "Sammy," he went on. "Boy genius. Sam, the prodigy. It has a nice ring to it."

"Can it."

"That photographic memory thing, that'll come in handy." Dean continued his playful teasing, no thoughts of stopping. "I mean, we'll have to work on the geeky aspect of your personality..."

"I'm not..."

"But chicks really dig that intelligence thing." Not allowing Sam to cut him off, he spoke right through him. "We'll turn you into a regular Will Hunting before you know it."

"Who?" Sam snapped.

Dean waved a hand. "Ah, never mind, too much irony, too little time."

"Whatever you say, jerk." Sam's anger sounded real, but Dean knew his little brother.

Reaching over to the passenger's side, he ruffled the younger boy's hair affectionately, "You know I'm right, ya little bitch."

Their brotherly bickering carried them all the way to Exit 73, and through a nice, large meal at their chosen restaurant. It got them through a night at Motel 6, several cups of coffee the next morning and another day of driving through the country. It got them to Boston, all the while casting the assurance that everything would indeed be alright.

* * *

A month later found the Winchester brothers comfortably settled in the crappiest apartment known to man. Or so was Sam's opinion. Dean, on the other hand, had scouted out apartments all over the city before choosing the one in which they now resided. And as it was, their current place of residence lacked cockroaches, bloodstains, unidentifiable smells, and came equipped with running water - that was its proper color - and heat, plus a two-hundred dollar a month rent bill, thus Dean dubbed it a winner.

Sam, on the other hand, was still reeling over the fact that it lacked anything resembling personal space. It was a three-room apartment, and only one of those rooms happened to be a bedroom. Which was just big enough for one, single size, mattress- which sat on the floor, sans box spring. The living room came equipped with a futon that, when pulled out, blocked the entrance to the bedroom, so whoever was in that room had to climb over it to reach the rest of the apartment.

A single dresser sat wedged in between the top of the futon and the front door - which banged against it when opened. The closet in the bedroom was home to a washer and dryer, which both brothers had found odd - as the landlord explained it though, her last tenants didn't trust the public Laundromats.

"Not that I blame them." Sam had mumbled upon hearing that particular tidbit.

Dean had simply shrugged. "Actually we lucked out," he said, quoting the chain-smoking old lady they were renting from. "Usually when people move outta here, they take all their stuff."

"Why didn't the last tenants do that?" Sam asked distractedly, fingering some mismatched dishes in the kitchen - which was really just a nice name for the counter that stretched across part of the living room, parallel to the bathroom and held a microwave and a coffee maker.

"Well, actually..." Dean started.

"Let me guess," Sam cut him off, "They were murdered, right? Right in this apartment. Or committed a double suicide. Or one killed the other before killing themselves. Or both got abducted by aliens and the Feds sprayed toxic chemicals all over the place to keep them from coming back, right?"

"I told you to quit watching the X-files." He answered simply.

"Bite me." He retaliated, then after a pause, "So, am I close?"

"They won the lottery." Dean couldn't hide a smirk at his brother's crestfallen expression. "Half a million dollars. Paid Old Lady cheapskate landlord..."

"Who's real name..."

"Is Mrs. Donnelley." Dean filled in without stopping. "Paid her enough to hire someone to fix all the leaks in the roof, so we won't even have to worry about that."

"Yay." Sam's cheer defiantly lacked enthusiasm.

"Buck up, buddy," Dean knocked his shoulder lightly. "Could be worse."

"Yeah," Sam agreed with fake cheer. "We could be living in a crack house."

Dean cringed, and Sam, obviously having realized he stepped on a nerve, offered a small smile, and went back to inspecting the kitchen-wear silently.

* * *

"Well, I got a job." Dean announced a few days into their new life. Both brothers were sitting cross-legged on the futon - which was folded up to resemble a couch - eating cereal. Cereal, milk, bread and peanut butter were the only food items their minuscule budget, left over from their old life,had allowed thus far. Lucky Charms - a tribute to their youth.

"Where at?" Sam's interest was peaked.

"A construction sight, about twenty minutes from here."

"Construction?"

"Yeah," Dean nodded, sounding enthused. Sam listened to his reasoning with an unbiased ear. "It's simple, no one's gonna check into my background. It pays a decent amount, and I get an extra fifteen percent 'cause I have a High School Diploma. And, ya know...It pays cash."

"Cash?" This tidbit had Sam immediately concerned. "Doesn't that mean its under the table? Illegal?"

"Not necessarily." Dean shrugged. "Some jobs just pay cash. If they don't have a bank account set up, or...I don't know, but it seemed perfectly legal."

"Which is a step-up from your last job." Sam wasn't referring to his work at the Auto Body Shop, and Dean knew it.

"Let it go, Sammy." He said tersely, and the younger man could tell it wasn't a request.

"Whatever," Sam shrugged, and the silence that followed held a million things unsaid, left untouched. The brother's had always had a silent understanding about Dean's past. Which suited the eldest of the two just fine. "As long as it pays. We need money." He followed up a few minutes later.

"Yeah," Dean was short. "I'm gonna get goin'" He stood up then, and went about the motions of placing his bowl in the tiny sink and shuffling around the small apartment, preparing to leave.

And for a brief moment, Sam wanted to stop him. Wanted to apologize, or insist that he accompany him, just so he could see the place, but by the time he had mustered up enough courage to even suggest something of the sort, the door was slamming behind his big brother, and Sam was left alone.

That had been about a month ago, Sam recalled, and nothing had really changed. Dean would leave for work every morning around nine, Sam would stay in the apartment and find various ways to entertain himself. He tried at first to organize their living space so that the might actually have room to walk more than two steps without running into something.

When that had failed, he'd taken to rummaging through all the books they had brought with them, including some advanced text books Dean had managed to somehow swipe from his old school. Sam had, in due time, grew bored with them as well. There was, after all, only so much one could read about quantum physics before the need to bang your head against a wall became all consuming.

He didn't venture outside too often, fear of being found out overwhelmed him, and he began to envy his elder brother who, by being eighteen and legally an adult, wore a sort of shield against the rest of the world.

They hadn't had a serious conversation since they had arrived in Boston. Dean's constant exhaustion from his construction job - which was contained much more physical laborthan he'd imagined it would- plus Sam's never-ceasing nerves about living an illegal life, mixed together until the brothers could barely say more than a couple sentences to each other without getting into some sort of argument.

Sam could tell he was the cause of most of it, that he was being difficult and, well, a moody teenager, but he couldn't control it. His emotions had been all out of whack ever since they'd left Kansas. Suddenly, he wasn't trapped anymore. He was allowed to act however he wanted, without fear of their father walking through the door and beating him into submission. It was a nice feeling, but one he was quite unaccustomed to.

He had a new life, a new existence, and that would take some definite getting used to. He had a feeling, in the pit of his stomach, that this was, indeed, just the beginning. Something was starting.

* * *

TBC...

Your thoughts are well appreciated!


	9. As the daytime is stirring

As the daytime is stirring

_A shot rang out. _

_Dean looked around frantically. He couldn't see what was going on. There was nothing around him except unparalleled darkness. A void that took everything else away – it was worse than being drugged, and he had no control._

_There were echoes around him now. They took over the darkness and surrounded him._

_"Dean…" He heard someone croak. _

_Chance's last word had been his name. It was a plea, the eldest Winchester felt. He'd been begging for help, grasping out to the only life force he could find._

_"Dean…" And he was dead. _

_"Dean." The voice was different; Dean tried to turn his head, thought maybe he had succeeded when he could finally see. _

_Only he couldn't really see – he was just seeing. Flashes of the past as his little brother called out to him. "Dean…help me." _

_He watched muddled visions and connected them subconsciously into long ago events. Their father taking his anger out on his boys. Dean coming home to the sight of his car in the driveway and an enormous ball of dread forming in the pit of his stomach. _

_Running upstairs as fast as the slumbering threat of John Winchester would allow. Anxious to get to his baby brother – terrified of the grievous injuries he would find once he did. _

_"Dean…"_

_He whirled around again, and Chance was getting shot. They were in the apartment hallway and Chance was in front of him, bleeding and falling. He body collapsed in such a slow motion, and Dean lurched forward, just as he had that night._

_Soon the bleeding boy was in his arms. Only when he looked again, it wasn't Chance. It was Sam. _

_And Dean knew somehow that he had still caused it._

_"Sammy…" He croaked, watching as the blood from the bullet wound spread and spread. Soon everything around him was red. _

_"Why didn't you save me?" The dying boy wondered aloud, sounding perplexed. As if the sun had failed to rise and he was left with only darkness. "Dean…"_

_He was falling now, away from his brother. Automatically he struggled against the decent, "Sam," he tried to call. He had to get back to his brother, had to help him, the boy was still crying out for him. _

_"Dean…"_

_"Dean…" The voice was fading; he struggled to grasp something, anything…_

"Dean!" A great jostle landed him back in the world of the living and threw him for a loop.

Jumping back, away from the touch, his muddled brain tried to quickly take in his surroundings. He was still at work, he realized, sitting with his head in his hand at a picnic table. The man who had woken him was someone he worked with.

"Easy there, tiger," the middle-aged man was seated across from him, and was fixing his compassionate sky blue eyes steadily on the teen's. "That's why we've got the No Naps policy."

Dean tried his hardest to shake of the remnants of fear that his dream had left him with. He was still trying to piece together all the fragments of it when the man spoke again, seemingly worried at his lack of response.

"You okay?" He seemed genuinely concerned, and Dean realized he was lucky that it had been this guy who had found him asleep in the Lunch Break area. He was one of the only men with whom he worked, who he actually trusted.

"Yeah," Dean assured, settling himself back on the bench properly, forcing images of a dying Sammy away from his mind. "Just didn't get too much sleep last night."

The man eyed him disbelievingly, and Dean realized he must have seen the physical affects of the nightmare – whatever they might have been – take their toll on the eldest Winchester. He was too good of a liar to receive the dubious look for any other reason.

"Listen," the man spoke softly; glancing around them to make sure this conversation would remain private. "I like you, kid. You're not like all the other dick-wads around here-"

Dean couldn't help but snort, "Thanks,"

The man flashed him an old, tired smile. "You look like you gotta real reason for being here," he went on. "Not like most of these other thugs." Dean too glanced at their surrounding company.

Most of them looked the same, young men standing around in four or five large clusters; sporting white, wife-beater, tanks –or simply foregoing a shirt altogether - and drinking beers out of brown papers bags. Talking loudly of their unappreciative wives or the weed they scored over the weekend, or about how this situation was only temporary – soon they'd been off making real money.

Lager men, with beer bellies and collared shirts muddled amongst them too. Officials who were on the look out for troublemakers with bad attitudes. And Dean was sure that they were simply a preview of life to come for most of these guys. Dean shuddered at the thought.

"Yeah," Dean agreed somewhat sarcastically after a turning back to the man, he too was wearing a white undershirt – much like Dean himself was. "No place I'd rather be."

"Yeah, well…" the man's face got dark. "Look, I could hear you mumbling. In your sleep just now. And it don't bother me none, but if these other guys here you... moaning a guy's name in your sleep…" he trailed off sadly, but Dean was still stuck on his ongoing double take.

"Wait, what?" He demanded. "What did I…what did you hear?"

"Just the name 'Sam'." The elder man shrugged, taking a swig from a thermos of something – ice water by the looks of it. "Like I said," he sighed, wiping his mouth slightly, "Sexual preference don't matter to me, but these guys…man…I was here a couple years ago when a few of these wanna be gangsters got wind that someone on staff was, ya know, playing for the other team…" his tome was barely above a whisper and Dean didn't need the man to go on for him to get a clear summary of how this story might end.

"I'm not…Look man…I'm not…you know," he waved his hand. "I mean, it doesn't bother me either, but…I'm not."

The older man appraised him silently, and for some reason, Dean was hoping that he believed him. "You're not…?"

Dean shook his head, confirming.

The older man nodded acceptingly and the teen sighed a silent sigh of relief. The last thing he needed was for some idiotic thugs to try to bully him out of the only paying job he could afford to have at the moment.

A few minutes of silence passed between the two, and Dean was just considering feigned the need to go to the bathroom in order to dispel the growing awkwardness between them, when the man spoke again. "You a father?" He asked evenly.

Having not expected the question, Dean answered accordingly with, "Huh?"

"I don't wanna pry…" his voice implied something else all together, and Dean paid him rapt attention. "But you sounded damn scared in that dream a yours. And I know what it's like to be a dad. I do. And it can be shit-face scary sometimes."

Dean looked at this man steadily, really studying for the first time. Middle-aged, sporting a five o'clock shadow and a face that portrayed an impressing amount of patience and understanding.

Now that he thought about it, Dean could easily picture this guy in some overgrown backyard, playing with his kids, teaching them this and that. This man, Dean realized suddenly, wasn't a father. He was a dad.

"No," Dean forced out, a little overwhelmed by the image presented to him in his mind's eye. "I'm not a father. Not really. Sammy's my little brother."

The man nodded his understanding, "You boys are close, I take it?"

Sharing information with strangers was defiantly against Dean Winchester's personal rules of conduct; but still, for various reasons, he trusted this man. And it had been so long since he'd had a real conversation with anyone other than his little brother. And while he loved the kid – would choose him over anything or anyone else, always – it still felt nice to talk to someone new. Someone a bit wiser than him, even.

"Yeah," the teen agreed easily. "We're close. Our mom died when Sam was a baby and our dad…well, he wasn't all there after that."

The man nodded again, "You older?"

"Yeah," he shared, "By four years."

"Makes sense then," he decided, "Why you're so scared for him. You raised him, didn't you?"

"I did what I had to do," Dean agreed, having never thought to put it in those words before. He chuckled suddenly, "Man, if I did raise him, I'm sure as hell not done yet."

The man's brow wrinkled suddenly, "How old _are_ you, kid?"

"Eighteen," Dean answered; glad he didn't have to lie about being an adult anymore.

A low whistle admitted from the guy's throat as he shook his head back and forth slowly, "Man, you're taking care of a…what? Fourteen year old?"

Dean smirked slightly. "Yup." Then he shook his head slightly, still smiling. "As much as anyone can 'take care' of Sam. He's sorta independent."

"I can believe that," the man chuckled, and opened his mouth to say more, but was promptly cut off by the ringing of a bell behind them. The one their company used to inform its employees it was time to get back to work.

Dean stood automatically, finding that he was genuinely disappointed. He had been enjoying his chat with this older man. This dad. And was sad to see it end. He could see too, in the elder's eyes, that the feeling was mutual.

When both were standing, on either ends of the picnic table, the older of the two reached across it and stuck out his hand. "Name's Chuck, by the way." He said with a grin. "I don't think we've officially met."

The teen took his hand with a chuckle of his own. "Dean," he replied, gripping and shaking firmly. "Good to meet you."

* * *

It wasn't just that Sam Winchester was bored, because honestly; boredom he could deal with. Boredom could be fended off with a few well placed, utterly useless, yet entertaining events. Boredom could be destroyed - or at least promptly ignored - with aid of a good book or even a catnap.

Boredom Sam Winchester could deal with.

This, he couldn't.

This...utter and complete lack of anything to do. It wasn't boredom, it couldn't be. It went so very beyond boredom that he didn't even think the two were in the same hemisphere, or time zone. He doubted they had any knowledge that the other existed.

He had to think of a name for this thing, this...isolation. Although that seemed too strong. Separation, maybe. From the outside world. From school, which, for normal people, had started up again only days ago. He was even separated from his brother most of the time.

Dean came home from work around five-thirty everyday, and he was always exhausted. Always fell right to sleep after only a few hours, and Sam was left with more pent up energy than he knew what to do with.

Which was how he justified his daily trips out of the apartment to himself.

Because he'd told Dean when they first moved in here that, unless it was a dire circumstance, he would stay in the apartment as much as he could. At least while school was in session, because a kid who was so obviously under eighteen walking around town during school hours would draw attention.

And they couldn't afford attention.

Sam was strolling through a city park just then, enjoying the refreshing scent of pine trees and fresh air, and the sight of a pond several feet away made him smile; flocked by mothers toting small children, all feeding the ducks and giggling innocently. Sam was reminded of the childhood he didn't have.

He felt guilty for lying to Dean - or rather, omitting a certain truth. It was because of his brother that he'd had anything resembling a normal life at all thus far. Dean had risked life and limb to provide for him, he'd gotten them out of Kansas.

He owed his big brother a lot, and he knew he was betraying him by wandering around the city everyday. Yet the mere thought of returning to that apartment made him shudder, so he continued to walk the paved path of the small park, shouldering his guilt, because that was all he could do.

* * *

Several hours later, Dean banged his way through the front the door of the apartment. No matter how many times he opened the damn thing, he always managed to make it connect loudly with the dresser behind it.

He cringed deeply when he saw Sam - who was sprawled out on the futon, reading - jump at the sound. He forgot sometimes, how jumpy his little brother could be. Especially when he was occupied and not expecting loud noises.

Just another emotional scar caused by John Winchester - it fit in snugly with all the other emotional and physical damage the brother's had collected over the years.

Dean decided not to comment on the reaction. There was nothing he could do for Sam now, and dwelling on it surly wasn't healthy. As it was, the younger teen was already turning to face him, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Hey honey, I'm home." Dean joked, wasting not time in kicking off his work boots and drooping them in a corner.

"Dean?" Sam asked, not waiting for an answer, but sitting up, cross-legged on the pulled out bed-type thing. "Do understand the mysteries of man?"

Dean looked at his brother for a few solid seconds, not moving and utterly confused. "Is this a trick question?"

Sam shook his head, picking up the book he was reading and flashing it in Dean's direction. "Man and Meaning." He read off the cover, shrugging, "So what?"

"It's a philosophy book," the fourteen-year-old stated plainly, putting it down and studying Dean steadily. "What possessed you to get a book on modern philosophy?"

Dean shrugged, walking in the direction of the small bathroom, yet continuing the conversation easily, which was one of the only pluses of having an apartment the size of a rather large walk-in closet.

"I knew you'd get a kick out of it," he said loudly, taking his work clothes off and changing into something comfortable. "You're almost done with it, so I think its safe to say that I was right,"

"I've been skipping around," Sam responded, explaining the spot in the book he'd been holding in place when he showed it to Dean. "And what makes you think I'd even understand it. It's a college level text."

"That fact that you say shit like 'college level text'." Dean responded, smirking at himself in the dirty bathroom mirror and wishing he could have seen Sam's facial response to that. He heard the younger boy mumble something under his breath, but didn't ask for clarification. "You get it though, don't you?"

"Some of it," Sam said, and when Dean reappeared from the bathroom and shot him an easy to read, disbelieving expression, he conceded, "Alright, most of it. It's actually pretty interesting."

Dean clucked his tongue, mock disapprovingly, "It's official. My brother's a geek." He snickered at Sam's one-finger salute and turned back towards the kitchen area, rummaging through the cabinets. "Seriously though," he called, "What's that book got to say about the mystery of man?"

Sam called back, sounding frighteningly professional, "Confrontation with a man's being can cause dizziness, but philosophy is not a hospital."

Dean stuck his head through the area above the kitchen counter and stared straight at his brother, who was looking back at him with a smug expression. "Tell me you're quoting." He pleaded.

Sam didn't answer for a few seconds, and when he finally did, it was with a smile. "Merleau-Ponty," he admitted. "Raises a good point though, doesn't it?"

"Only to you, dude," Dean chuckled, admiring his brother's intelligence, but fully comprehending what was so profound about the statement. Sounded like a bunch of mumbo jumbo to him. "Hey, do we have anything to eat tonight?"

Sam shut his book and looked back at Dean - who swore he could see something odd flicker in hid brother's gaze, but it was gone a moment later, and the elder figured he was simply seeing things.

"Ahh..." Sam thought about it. "Left over pizza in the microwave," he finally answered.

"Sweet," Dean declared, finding said food within seconds. A stack of take-out pizza was piled together on an overflowing paper plate. Dean took the whole thing out, taking a bite out of one immediately and plopping a few more back in the microwave. "You want some?"

"I already ate," Sam answered, and Dean started the nuking device, turning once again towards his brother, who had reopened his book.

"Dude," the elder appraised him, pulling the cold pizza from his mouth and swallowing. "You look scrawnier than usual. You sure you're eatin' alright?"

"Yeah," Sam said at once, and something about the quickness of the response made the elder weary. "I mean," he shrugged. "We don't have a lot of options, but I get my solid three meals a day."

Dean was doubtful that the word 'solid' could accurately describe his brother's food choices. Sam had always had an odd sense of what a real meal should actually contain. For example; to Sammy, a piece of toast, half a bowl of soup and a bag of Doritos made an acceptable breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Dean was sure this default mindset had everything to do with the way the they'd grown up and their lack of real meals as children; but it worried him that Sam still thought these sort of patterns were normal. He'd tried his hardest for years to help Sam grow out of these mindsets, and he often worried that he hadn't fully succeeded.

Not sure how to voice these concerns however, all he did was nod and accept that Sam wasn't lying to him. Since there was no way he could monitor his brother at all times, he tossed a simple, "Yeah, okay," at him, and made a mental note to try to get Sam to eat more when he was around.

When his pizza was done, he joined Sam on the futon, fumbling around for the remote that'd come with the tiny TV they'd splurged on after Dean's first payday. It sat, cramped on the top of the dresser, but most of the pictures that came in for the non-cable channels were pretty clear, thanks to a Drug Store antenna they'd picked up as well.

"Do you mind?" Sam asked, sounding annoyed, when Dean had settled in on a football game and turned up the volume. "I'm trying to read."

"What was that?" The incredibly mature teen put one hand to his ear while pushing the up volume button on the remote with the other, "I couldn't hear you, the TV's too loud."

Sam scowled and punched his brother in the shoulder as hard as he could manage. Which stung a little, Dean admitted, but couldn't actually bother him. As he now had -thanks to his new job - more layers of muscle than he ever had before.

He didn't even try to get into a wrestling match with his scrawny kid brother, knowing he would dominate within seconds. Not to mention that their living environment really didn't offer any room for such a squabble, plus he still had reheated pizza on his lap.

So he simply shoved Sam slightly, grinning widely as the younger boy rolled his eyes, but didn't protest. He stretched out on his side of the futon after a few seconds of adjustment, resting the closed book on his lap and turning towards the television.

"So, who's winning?"

End Chapter.

A/N: So, whaddya think? Worth the wait? I'd love to hear what you have to say. I have some serious ideas about where I'm taking this and how I want to end it, and reviews help motivate me to actually get there!

PS - The philosophy book I refrence is a real work by James E. Royce. I don't own it. I mean, I do -In the same sence that I'm gonna own Supernatural when it comes out on DVD. But I'm definatly not makinga prophit off of it. Or our boys, for that matter, which is a cryin' shame if you ask me, 'cause I'd love to own them:)


	10. Using words you will find are strange

Title: On The Turning Away

Author: Oldach's Dream

Summary: Dean would do anything to keep his little brother safe and healthy. He would provide for him, no matter what the cost. They didn't need their father. Not today, not ever. AU, what if they'd had Max's childhood? Angst and Smarm.

Disclaimer: Don't own a thing.

Rating: T

A/N: As much as I would love to, I find it extremely difficult to keep our boy's completely separated from the outside world. So I touched on it in the last chapter, and more in this one - The Winchester's living their own lives. Brotherly interactions in this chapter are sparse - but cute once you get there - as separate bonds and worlds are established. And I'm probably saying too much (as I'd still like you to continue reading), but I'd love some feedback on the worlds I'm creating for them. Oh, and I promise that if this chapter lacks any brotherly drama/angst - the next two will totally make up for it. Just stick with me!

* * *

Chapter Ten: Using words you will find are strange 

"Whattcha readin' kid?" A casual voice sounded and Sam turned automatically in its direction, a twenty-something year old guy was using a hand to lean up against the side of the two-person table at which Sam was seated. He looked laid back, as if talking to perfect strangers was how he passed his time everyday. Short black hair and baggy cloths added to his persona - overall, he looked like a grown up skater punk.

"A book," Sam responded sarcastically, yet held the hardback up so the guy could read the title.

Rather than taking Sam's attitude as an inclination that the younger boy didn't want to be bothered, he adapted a look of spirited acknowledgement, gesturing with his free hand as he kept speaking, "Dude, you takin' that class too? Wicked hard, isn't it?"

Sam's eyes shifted from the printed pages of his book as the older man sat down in the chair opposite him, slinging his messenger bag onto the table, coming dangerously close to Sam's coffee. The youngest Winchester - taking in the man's appearance and attitude - deduced intelligently, that when he'd stopped for a quick drink that afternoon, he'd probably unwittingly stumbled into some off-campus college cafe. He felt the tightening of something begin in his stomach, but he couldn't identify the feeling as anything more than not a bad one.

"Did you do the Review questions for chapter six? 'Cause I couldn't figure 'em out." He sounded hopeful, and Sam was acting before his brain had completely caught up. He began flipping though the pages of the book that, just a few weeks before he'd told his brother was a textbook for a college class, and eyed the questions he was speaking of.

"Ah...no, I didn't do 'em." Sam said honestly. "But I have some valid answers, if you want..." He didn't have to finish the sentence, the college student was already pulling out a worn looking notebook and opening it to a blank page.

"Shoot." The guy requested shortly, sounding hopeful.

Sam looked at the man, pen poised, ready to record whatever Sam said. An unbelievable feeling of control came over him then, he felt powerful - basking in the knowledge that this man, whatever the circumstances, needed him. Was relying him for something that he otherwise wouldn't have.

The intensity of the feeling wafted over him and was gone a heartbeat later, but left him with a feeling of something resembling pride. He felt the smile on his face and couldn't control it, just shook his head slightly in disbelief and began speaking.

He told the young man - Seth, a quick introduction informed him - the answers to every question in the review- his own opinions when the question called for it. He spent more time - nearly an hour - just explaining some of the theories in discussion, to the best of his knowledge, to the other boy. That same feeling of pride coursing though him steadily the entire time.

"Well, Sam," Seth leaned back in the chair, sighing as he closed his notebook with an air of finality. "I guess its pretty damn lucky I ran into ya, huh? I may actually pass the course now." He laughed lightly.

The younger boy chuckled slightly as well, "Yeah, I guess," he agreed, finishing off the last of his small, now cold,coffee.

"Shit," the older boy exclaimed, glancing down at his wristwatch, "I gotta go."

Sam, with an oddly disappointed feeling, nodded, gathering his own things, thinking that he still had some time to kill before Dean was due home. He felt disappointed as well, that he would not be able to share this occurrence with his big brother - he wanted to hear the pride in his big brother's tone that he knew would be there if he told him he'd explained concepts to a guy nearly nine years his senior. "Yeah, alright. I'll see ya-"

"Wanna lift?" He cut in instead.

Sam, not at all comfortable with the idea of letting a stranger find out where he lived, shot the boy a doubtful look.

"Come on," Seth pleaded, "We're going to the same place, its the least I can do, you look too young to drive yourself anyway. You're one of those genius kids from Magnificent, aren't you?"

"Ah..." Sam wasn't sure how to respond to the myriad of confusing statements there, so he simply shrugged, flinching slightly as the older boy leaned over and slapped his shoulder slightly.

"Come on," he kept going, seemingly unaware of Sam's discomfort, "Class starts in like," he glanced at his watch again, "ten minutes. No way you're gonna be able to walk. Come on." He repeated.

The class that Seth thought he was somehow a part of, Sam realized, must be the event to which the older man wanted to give him a lift to. Thinking for a few seconds, Sam put together also, that Magnificent must be a High School somewhere in the city. Thus explaining his young age and understanding of the text.

"Yeah, alright." Sam heard himself agreeing. "Don't wanna be late."

"Great," Seth declared as both boys exited the cafe.

Sam thought of his brother as he got into the guy's beat-up old two-door car. What would Dean say if he knew his little brother was accepting a ride from a stranger? Logically Sam knew that what he was doing could be classified as incredibly stupid, yet something in his gut told him that this young man was not a threat to him - or his family.

"So, is it weird?" The older boy initiated a conversation not too long after they started driving, unsurprisingly. Seth, quite obviously, was not a person who dealt well with silence.

"Is what weird?" Sam questioned, glad to have a distraction from his thoughts and doubts.

"Going to college. I mean, you're still in High School, right?" And Sam's previous theory on Magnificent was proven accurate.

"Yeah," Sam lied easily - it wasn't exactly a lie even, so much as an exclusion of certain truths. "I don't know. College is a lot like High School, isn't it?" He phrased it as if stating his opinion, yet listened attentively to his companion's response.

Seth scrunched up his face slightly and shrugged doubtfully. "Yeah, I mean, I guess...kinda." He shook his head. "If you really think about it - I mean, it's all learning, teachers, classes, homework... But I always thought college was more...open. Freedom. Ya know what I mean?"

No, Sam thought bitterly. But said aloud, "I guess." And left it at that.

Seth let the subject drop as well, focusing on the suddenly crowded intersection outside the windshield of the car. Sam didn't know how exactly, but in less than a few blocks, the calm, uncrowned city street had morphed into a busy student intersection. Cars honked at one another, while pupils on foot gestured wildly to each other.

The young Winchester took in the scene, leaning forward in the passenger's seat subconsciously to get a loser look - he felt incredibly overwhelmed. This was life, he decided then. This was everything he had never known, the things he had been kept away from because of their mother's death and father abusive ways. This was what his brother - in getting them away from Kansas and to Boston - had been trying to help him to find.

This was normal.

* * *

Dean sat down at the picnic bench, sighing heavily, letting his head rest in both his hands wearily. 

"Coffee?" The sympathetic tone informed him that Chuck had taken a seat across from him.

Dean lifted his head, took one look at the beverage in his hand, and reached for it gratefully. Raising it to his lips, he took a long sip, waiting only a few seconds before feeling notably better. At least, more apt to make it through the rest of his shift. He took another drink.

"Tough day?" The elder man sipped at his own cup of the black elixir.

"New floor came in," Dean mumbled. "Connors didn't show, and half the old brick was still there."

Chuck nodded, "I'll get Smith and Grant over there to help next shift if you want," he offered. "Our tiling doesn't come in 'til Thursday."

Dean nodded gratefully, thankful to have made an alliance in the supervisor of one of their many half-dozen man teams. That's how their job worked. Men split up - based on what each knew how to do -and appointed themselves a leader. The supervisors took the job of telling their crews what to do and each group worked on one of the dozen buildings set up around the site. Dean didn't mind the arrangement, and found that the people in positions if power were much less idiotic than the rest of the other ones he worked with.

"That'd be great." He accepted the offer easily, having gotten used to trusting this man. "We have to get at least half of that floor in today, or we'll be off schedule."

Chuck nodded again, "No problem," a silence filtered over the two as Dean continued sipping his coffee, trying to keep his mind on his work. Chuck, somehow sensing his conflicting emotions, began talking, and effectively took away that option.

"What's on your mind, kid?" He asked in a deeply concerned tone.

Dean shrugged automatically. "Nothin'."

Chuck stared him down, and Dean cracked after not too long, assuring himself again that he trusted this man. Trusted - but didn't need. It was his choice to talk to him about his problems. "I just...my brother."

"Something wrong with him?" His immediate concern was genuine and Dean felt a few of his natural defenses fading. Chuck cared - for whatever reason - about his small, two-person family. No mater how hard Dean found it to believe, and he didn't seem to have any alternative motives. The more time spent with Chuck, the more Dean came to accept that.

"No," The younger boy shook his head immediately. "I mean...I don't think so. He seems fine, I guess. I can't put my finger on it, but something feels off with him." He took another swig of the black liquid, allowing his elder companion time to gather his thoughts.

"Could you just be worryin' about nothing?" He asked in a cautious tone, obviously not wanting to sound as if he was completely disregarding the boy's concern.

"I don't think so," Dean shook his head, sounding not at all insulted. "I thought I was at first, I told myself it was nothing...but he just...he's not all there anymore. He'll talk to me well and good enough, it just doesn't sound like he means it. He's not eating right either, I don't care what he says, and he still...he's really..." Dean shook his head, not wanting to get into the specifics of their father's abuse, as he had never told Chuck the details of it. "I'm jut worried."

"Well, look," Chuck sighed after a few quiet moments of contemplation, "If it were happin' to one a my kids - and trust me, mine can by moody," they both smiled slightly, "I wouldn't think much of it. But I got my wife to really pick up on things like that."

"Well, what would she do?" Dean asked nervously, paying close attention.

Chuck sighed, running a hand through his hair and over his face. "Well, she'd talk to 'em I guess - keep an eye on 'em if they said nothin' was wrong." Dean didn't like the advice, but nodded anyway, Chuck sighed, "Sometimes kids are just kids. You acted like a kid, didn't you?"

Flashes of Alan's apartment and Chance's death burst into his mind, unbidden. Memories of long ago jobs and skuzzy people - his brother's fear and Dean's own hate for having had put it there.

"I acted stupid." Dean said. "I did some stupid stuff."

"All kids do," Chuck didn't understand the severity of the pain Dean had caused, the true stupidity of his decisions. Dean didn't want him to understand. "And I reckon its pretty hard growin' up without parents really in the picture either."

Dean looked away, eyes settling on one of the many half constructed walls littering the site around them, "We always managed." He said stiffly, yet with pride.

"Doesn't mean it wasn't hard." Chuck said simply and Dean's eyes darted back to him just long enough to see the sympathy there.

"Maybe," Dean agreed. "But there's nothing I can do to change that. I just try to do right by him, ya know?"

The lunch bell rang then, before either could get another word out, and as the two stood and prepared to continue working, Dean couldn't tell if he felt relief or disappointment at the restrictions placed on his ability to have an actual conversation with his new friend.

* * *

The college course, Sam had found out, was called 'The Study of Modern Philosophies' and housed nearly two-hundred kids for an hour every Monday and Wednesday. In the mass of students - some of which were near his own age, being the 'genius kids' Seth had referred to - Sam found that he could listen - even contribute to the class discussions - without being found out. 

He'd, over the past hour, stated a few of his opinions on some of the theories they reviewed, even shared a few of his half-formulated ideas on some of the more abstract theories that their text only eluded to.

He'd been praised by the professor - a middle aged woman who looked as if she lived for these lecture rooms full of students. She wore her hair up in a pony tail, loose strands being pushed aside by the glasses perched atop her head, she was clad in jeans and a T-shirt, effectively making the rest of the class feel at ease.

Sam listened to every word she said and was amazed at the skill she possessed in stringing them together. She took seemingly complex notions and put them into extraordinarily simple terms. Sam was awestruck, and when the class did end, the youngest Winchester felt as if he'd only been there for a few short minutes.

"I'll see you all the day after tomorrow," she called to her rising pupils, "Don't forget to read and do the chapter seven questions, we'll discuss them Wednesday."

Sam left with the rest of the class, knowing that lingering behind would draw attention to himself, he was soon in the crowded hallways of Boston State Community College. He walked slowly, listening to other students chatter away around him.

"..precalc," he caught the tail end of a conversation behind him, "Worst professor _ever_, I don't understand these required courses. I thought I was done with math in High School."

"I know," the voice next to hers responded, and soon the two girls having the conversation were walking next to him, then past him, with long, purposeful strides. "I hate my required English class, I sit next to this ass who keeps try..."

And then they were gone, and Sam was still gaping at the world around him.

He had always liked High School, enjoyed learning with an intensity his older brother couldn't begin to fathom. But this world...this world was so much different than the measly halls of his public school corridors.

The air around him was filled with the atmosphere of new knowledge, just waiting to be taken in. For once in his life - in a situation where his brother wasn't present - Sam Winchester truly felt like he belonged somewhere. Even his increasing height factored into his comfortable feelings. He wasn't out of place here.

College. He forced himself to think it. He was at a college. Something inside him swelled with excitement and he felt incredibly...innocent. As if the last fourteen years - the abuse, the hiding, the lying - they hadn't really happened.

Or, more accurately, they were a part of his life that he could put behind him. His father's alcoholism didn't dictate his decisions - his attitude - here. Nothing did - except his desire to learn.

Sam knew he should feel at least mildly intimidated by his current surroundings - knew almost any, normal, fourteen-year-old would be in some sort of shock. But he wasn't, hadn't been since he'd hopped out of Seth's car and first set foot on campus. He soaked in the environment and couldn't even find it in his heart to be surprised that he had stumbled upon this life today.

He didn't trust much in this world. If one were to play the cynicism angle, it might be said that he trusted nothing. Except, of course, his big brother. But that wasn't true - not entirely. Sam placed trust in his own heart, his instincts. The knowledge that came within those gut feelings he so often had.

It was how he knew - as a mere toddler - that the day would come when his father would hurt him the way he hurt Dean - he was reminded of that every time he glanced down at his left hand and saw the faded scars. It's how he'd always known that their life wasn't normal, and why he wanted nothing more than for it to be. It's why he never spoke of his mother. Even Dean couldn't lay claims to that one.

Dean would speak of Mary whenever he damn well pleased, whether it was to satisfy Sam's unvoiced curiosity, or to provoke their father into acting out his rage against him, rather than Sam. Dean wasn't scared - but Sam knew better.

Now though, focusing on that feeling, his instincts informed him that it was no chance meeting between him and that college kid at the coffee shop today. Just like it was no accident he'd found five bucks shoved in the folds of the futon this morning while looking for his socks, and when he'd been out walking around had happened to pass the cafe in the first place.

No, Sam felt surly that this turn of events was meant to be. Hell, maybe it was fate's way of making up for all the crappy hands he'd been dealt in the past. Whatever the case may be, Sam trusted this turn of events.

Thought that perhaps, finally, something was going his way.

* * *

Dean entered their small apartment purposely and with caution - he had decided that he was going to talk to Sam tonight - just as Chuck had suggested - and at least get some vague notion of what was going on in the kid's head. He was the big brother after all, and that - by definition - was part of his job. 

Taking care of things.

Only as soon as he entered the small living area, he knew that there would be no meaningful conversations tonight. Sam was sprawled out on the futon, lying on his stomach, the side of his face still angled towards the book he'd been reading. The kid was fast asleep, and Dean felt a sudden lightness about him that was all too easy to identify. He smiled and bit his lip. He was getting sappy in his old age, he told himself as he shut the door quietly behind him and turned again towards his brother.

Fourteen years, Dean sighed gently as he walked over and sat next to Sam, watching with old, watery eyes as the younger boy shifted in his sleep, moving only marginally closer to Dean's side.

Fourteen years was not enough for all Sam had gone through. The death, the abuse. The constant fear, the hate; even the dependence he had developed on his bog brother. All of it was wrong. All of it was unhealthy. Too much too soon.

Looking at his little brother now, however, Dean couldn't find it in is heart to regret anything they -or he'd - done over the past eighteen years. Couldn't hate it, because it had gotten them where they were right now - away from their father and together.

He knew Sam was going through something, whether or not it was something that Dean could help him with...well, he supposed only time would tell. For now, the sleeping boy looked angel-like in his peacefulness and the could not find it in his heart to disturb that. It'd been too long since Dean had been witness to this level of contentment. In anyone.

"Good night, Sammy." He whispered, pulling a blanket up from the bottom of the makeshift bed and draping it over the skinny boy's shoulders. He stood up cautiously and crossed the few feet to the light switch at the other end of the room.

One flick and they were in darkness, illuminated only by the pale moonlight filtering in through the window. The Winchester's, at that moment, were sketched in eternity.

"Sleep tight, kiddo."

TBC...


	11. We could find that we’re all alone

Chapter Eleven: We could find that we're all alone

"So, who is this guy?" Sam questioned, popping a TV dinner in the microwave and pressing the appropriate buttons to start the device.

"I told you, Sammy," Dean began, simultaneously pulling two water bottles out of the fridge. Bottled water had seemed, at first, like a useless luxury - then the brothers had seen the water that came out of their tap. Now neither doubted its necessity. "He's a guy I work with - older, you know. Not a crack head."

"Always a plus." The younger brother took his eyes away from the cooking device to rummage around their tiny kitchen for some paper towels. "He has kids, though, right?"

"He's married too." Dean nodded, "Why? Does it matter? I mean, its not like I wanna date him." The elder got a dish towel whipped in his direction, and a few moments later found him plucking it off his head, chuckling heartily.

"Seriously," Sam continued after pulling the dinner out of the beeping microwave and tossing in the next one, setting it accordingly and starting it again. "How much are you telling him? I mean...what does he know about us?"

Dean sighed, rubbing his face tiredly, "Not much, Sammy." He affirmed to his little brother that he hadn't risked any sort of exposure to their secret. "This and that. Trust me, he won't call the cops or anything like that."

"Because he doesn't know anything or because you trust him?" The forever-distrusting fourteen-year-old asked suspiciously.

"Both." Dean answered easily.

"You actually trust him?" Sam asked disbelievingly and Dean was suddenly incredibly sick of having to defend himself.

"Yes, Sam." He snapped. "I trust him, okay?"

"No," the younger boy exclaimed, looking affronted, "It's not okay."

Dean sighed as the microwave beeped, working with the distraction, he focused on getting both their meals set up at the tiny island stationed between the two rooms. Dean pulled up a stool in the kitchen and Sam rounded his way into the living room and sat opposite him.

"I just can't believe, after everything that happened in Kansas, you'd just tell this guy all about our life." Sam started up again, pushing his food around with his fork.

Dean began digging into his own meal with a flourish. So processed meat substitute with a lump of something white on the side didn't exactly look appealing - it was there and he was hungry. "Chuck isn't...you know, he isn't a bad guy."

"You mean he's not like your last friends?" Sam bit.

Dean shot him a look, his emotions were ranging from anger to guilt, and that was clearly portrayed. "You know," he looked down at his food and tried to sound casual, "If you're still pissed about all that..."

Sam sighed, taking a bite of what looked like it was supposed to be corn, before continuing. "I'm not mad, alright? I never was."

Dean snorted.

"I wasn't, man." He insisted. "I mean, you kinda scared me..."

"_I messed up, Sammy. I messed up bad."_

Both remembered his incoherent ness of that night. The night Chance died. The night that changed everything.

"...but I never...I never thought it was your fault."

Dean clenched his teeth and swallowed hard. He'd wanted to have this conversation with his little brother for over a year. Nearly sixteen months it had been with him, weighing his every decision, impacting each mumbled word.

It seemed only fitting that they were finally talking about it over frozen TV dinners in their tiny, crap apartment - which they weren't supposed to be living in, in the first place. No, the Winchester's could never do anything normally.

"Yeah?" He tried to confirm casually, yet the underlying fear was still there - right along side the built up tension and guilt.

"No, Dean." Sam said the word firmly, and the elder lifted his gaze to meet his. "What happened with Chance wasn't your fault."

He tried not to cringe - having not heard that name spoken aloud in such a long time, though, created a whirlwind of unexamined emotions. "Yeah, I know."

Sam nodded, and waited a few minutes before continuing. "It's just...we don't even know where dad is, you know? He could be off on some job, or he could be sitting in our old place just waiting for us to get home."

Dean couldn't help but smirk lightly at the image. He'd be waiting for a while, that was for sure.

"I mean, he could have called the cops already." There was so much fear in Sam's tone then - Dean was acting instinctively, trying to quell it without thought, immediately.

"He hasn't called the cops." He stated firmly.

"How do you know?" Sam insisted, sounding very much like the little kid he still kind of was. "Seriously, how do you know Chuck isn't an undercover detective or something?"

"Because." He rolled his eyes.

"Because what?"

"Because if Chuck was an undercover anything, we'd already be arrested." Dean answered honestly, "And you know as well as I do that dad wouldn't hire a private detective. I doubt he even called the cops. Hell, I doubt he even knows we're gone yet."

"But you don't know for sure." There was something in the way Sam was talking now that Dean couldn't put his finger on, but he didn't like it.

"No." He had to admit, finally letting his fork drop to the counter top and staring at Sam. His baby brother wouldn't meet his eyes. "But why are you pushing this now?"

"What do mean, _why_?" His gaze was still shifted downward. "I'm worried about dad finding us. I know your eighteen, but I'm not, Dean. If dad really wanted to, he could make me go back. And then what, huh? I'd be stuck with him."

Dean scrunched his brow in confusion. Sam's suddenly passionate speech was somewhat out of context and that worried the older boy. "You know I wouldn't let that happen, Sammy." He tired to say it factually, but the betrayal he felt at Sammy's words bled through. "You're not going back to Kansas, or anywhere near dad. And if you ever have to - for any reason - I'll be right there with you."

"You say that now." He said almost flippantly.

"Damn it, Sam!" Dean snapped, resisting the urge to bang his fist on the table. "What's gotten into you? Do you suddenly not trust me? I mean, I've kept you away from dad for nearly five months, I'm pretty sure I've kept every promise I ever made you. What else do you want?"

The scrawny teenager didn't respond at first, just hung his head low, letting his long hair fall in his eyes, protecting him from view. Dean studied him for several long minutes, frustration giving way to good old fashioned brotherly concern rather quickly.

"Sammy?" He pressed gently.

"I'm sorry." He mumbled quietly.

Dean didn't miss it. "Sorry for what? Sam?"

"I've been..." he took a deep breath and raised his gaze finally to meet his brother's. The older man saw in that look a myriad of emotions, so many that it was impossible to pick out just one. He felt suddenly useless. He listened to Sam because it was all he could do. "I've been leaving the apartment. Everyday."

Dean barely comprehended the words, heard only his brother's fear, and responded as only a big brother could. "Okay...well, that's not too bad. I should have known better than to try to keep you cooped up, right?"

"I've been putting us at risk, everyday."

"It's a big city, Sam." Dean waved a hand slightly, unconcernedly. "As long as you haven't been jumping up and down outside police stations..." his brother was still staring solemnly. "God, you haven't been, have you?"

He meant it as a joke, but Sam just took a deep breath. "I've been sitting in on classes at the Community College." He said it quietly, but Dean heard it. His eyes bulged accordingly.

"You what?"

"That book you got me? The philosophy one? I…well, its kinda a long story, but it ended up being a textbook for a class down there, and I've been going. Twice a week." He sounded so scared; and Dean didn't know what to say to any of this. Had too may raging emotions to choose from.

He kept them all, though, safely tucked behind a blank expression. "For how long?" He asked levelly.

"Over a month."

"Sammy…" he trailed off, still not knowing what to say.

His little brother picked it up easily. "Look, I know its stupid, okay? I know there are a lot of risks there, but I just couldn't…stay here, you know? I mean, you go out, go to work everyday, and I get that you do that so we can keep living here, and I…" he shook his head, not giving in to the chick-flick moment, "But I had to get out. Had to do something."

"Okay…" Dean felt the full affects of what Sam had just admitted hit him at last. "I can understand that, Sammy…but come on! Did you seriously have to start going to college?" He chuckled ironically, "I always knew you were a little geek."

Sam bit his lip and stared expectantly.

"Man…out of all the things you could have started doing… Do you know how many cops and shit wander around campuses like that? Do you know how outta place you look?"

"Yeah." He admitted dejectedly.

"Goddamn it, Sammy," Dean dropped his head into his hands, running them through his hair and lifting his gaze once more. "If you hated it here that much..."

"I don't hate it," the younger boy picked up the trailing sentence. "I just..." he didn't seem able to form words, ending with a simple shrug.

Dean stood abruptly. "I gotta...I'm gonna go out for a while." Even as he spoke the words, he was moving away from the kitchen counter.

"Dean..." Sam tried uselessly; watching helplessly as his big brother haphazardly threw on shoes and a jacket.

"I'll be back." The elder hated how stiff his voice was, but he had no other option. He couldn't stay in the apartment.

He didn't dare look in Sam's direction as he made his way through the front door.

* * *

Dean didn't make it farther than the small park a few blocks away from their crummy apartment. He felt himself start to deflate when he caught sight of it.

His strides, which just moments before had been purposeful and long, became lackluster and weighed down. He reached one of the swings and barely had the energy to plop his ass onto it.

He felt completely and utterly defeated, resting his head against the metal chain of the swing and kicking off lightly with his foot. He smiled sadly as he rocked back and forth gently.

"_What if dad finds out?" The terrified tone of his six-year-old little brother couldn't deter Dean's movements, yet they caused the grip he had on Sam's little hand to tighten considerably._

"_Dad's at work." He reminded._

_Sam bit his lip and continued walking, "All the other kids go to the park."_

"_That's why we're going now," the ten-year-old boy said confidently. "We're gonna be normal for a while, kay?"_

_Sam's pensive smile turned into one of honest delight. "Okay." He agreed, and Dean loved how easy it was to gain compliance from the child. Thought vaguely that he should appreciate that._

_They made it to the park where all the other neighborhood kids were playing, and Dean watched with a certain pride as his little brother ran ahead of him to reach the swing set on the other side of the playground. _

_Sam's little legs stopped when he was halfway there, as turned back around, hair flying, face flushed, "Come on!" He called; gesturing with his right arm, keeping the scarred left one from view, as he always did, subconsciously. "You have to push me!"_

_Dean followed with a smile on his face and a warmth in his heart - maybe their father hadn't completely destroyed his son's lives._

Dean's smile now wasn't as carefree or innocent, andthere were many things tainting that warmth in his heart -but he knew it was still there. Past the pain, death, hate and fright... It was there. Sam still kept it there.

Thinking about his little brother, Dean knew he wasn't honestly angry with Sam for his decisions of late. He couldn't be, not justifiably, not after all the mistakes he'd made over the years. Not after the fear that he'd caused Sam.

He thought of his father then too, because John Winchester was one of the most influential people in his life. Whether he liked it or not. John had been his only parental figure, Dean had seen his father not cope after his wife's death, had seen him run away like a coward from all that upset him.

"_John Winchester, I could just smack you." The round, black woman set her hands on her hips and looked at his father with deep disapproval. "I know you miss your wife, honey, we all do-"_

"_Don't talk about her, Missouri!" He snapped, causing Dean, who was seated on the couch in the other room where the grownups thought he couldn't see them, to jump. Sammy, who was sleeping fitfully in his arms, whimpered, but didn't wake. _

"_Mary was a dear friend of mind," Missouri said gently, "You know that. And I think you know that her death-"_

"_I said, Shut up!" He yelled again, this time Dean had been expecting it, and didn't so much as flinch, just tightened his grip on his little brother. "I can't..." John's hands went to his head, gripping firmly, too firmly. "I can't do this!" He flung his arms out, and Dean noticed how the older woman took a step back. _

"_Your sons need you," she sounded resolved. "Now more than ever. Do you really want to abandon them?" _

_John's breathing was shallow and frightening, it was the only sound in the entire house. It seemed to Dean to last forever, the time spoken between Missouri's words and his father's next movements. Finally though, a decision was made. _

"_I have to get out of here." Then he was heading for the front door. _

_Dean felt blind panic grip his insides. He understood that his mother was gone. Knew somehow that flames of just hours ago had taken her away. He knew that she would never be returning to him. He also knew somehow that it hadn't been her choice._

_And all he saw now was another parent leaving him - the only one he had left was choosing to walk out the front door and abandon him. There were no flames in that decision._

"_Daddy!" Dean was on his feet before he could even think about it, Sam was still in his arms, but was quickly transferred to Missouri, as she ran into the room to meet them. _

"_Dean!" The elder yelled after him as he darted past her, as soon as Sammy was safely in her arms. She tried to reach out to him as well, but it was no use. He wouldn't listen, couldn't comply. He was outside, bare feet hitting dewy grass, he didn't remember making it through the front door, all he saw was his father._

_Just recalled the panic, the need. He watched his father climb into a battered pick-up truck and that panic became all-consuming. _

"_Daddy!" He yelled again, and the older man stopped. He turned to look at his son. _

_Dean had tears glistening in his eyes, which still stung from the heat and smoke at their house. "Don't go!" He'd stopped as soon as his father had turned; he was halfway through the front yard now. "Please don't go!" He no thoughts other than the fear of losing his father._

_John's face was hard and cold, even in the darkness of the night, which was slowly fading to morning all around them, Dean could see that there were no emotions there. He sounded no words as he shook his head at his son and turned away. Getting into the driver's seat of the vehicle, and he pulled away without hesitation. _

_Dean kept staring. His Daddy never even looked back._

Dean remembered the night now with complete clarity. The same night that his mother had died, John had stopped being a dad. He would never forget the look his father had given him that night, it was one of the only real things he could recall from that time of his life.

After seeing John leave, Missouri had rushed outside and ushered him back into her home. He remembered sleeping with Sammy for a long time -and whether it was for one long night, or a few broken ones, he wasn't sure.

Everything else after that night was a blur. His father coming back, Sam crying, Missouri telling them not to leave, John making them leave anyway. It had been so many years since Dean had even thought about his mother's old friend. The woman had never contacted his family again, thus she'd fallen out of his thoughts.

Then they were out of Lawrence, and it wasn't long after that that their father's abusive streak started. The rest was history. Their history.

The rest Dean could never forget.

If John Winchester had ever given his eldest son anything, he realized now, it was a prime example of what never to become. That was Dean's goal for the rest of his life, and he believed honestly that everything would be all right as long as he met it completely.

He would never become his father.

With that thought firmly in place, he stood gradually and started walking the way he had come. Dean Winchester had made many mistakes throughout the course of his life, and he was sure to make many more. Human nature assured him of that.

But by God, abandoning his little brother would never be one of them.

* * *

Dean was back to the apartment less than an hour after he'd left the first time. Taking a few deep breaths, he prepared himself for what was sure to be one of the most important conversations he'd ever had with his brother.

He wanted to sit down with Sam and assure the younger boy, once and for all, that he would never, and will never, abandon him. He wanted to promise that they would be safe in Boston, and their lives would turn out fine. He wanted to set down some ground rules for healthy behavior and open communication.

He _wanted _to do all that. But he _needed _to assure Sammy that he would never, ever become their father.

With all this in mind, he opened the front door slowly, suddenly nervous. Taking another deep breath, he tried not to recall the look of defeat that'd been present in his little brother's eyes right before he walked out.

"Sammy," he called out lightly, taking a few steps towards the kitchen area, and then stopping abruptly.

Sam was at the far end of counter in the kitchen, facing away from Dean, he wasn't moving, but there was no doubt in Dean's mind that the younger boy could hear him.

Shaking off his bad feeling, he kept walking. "Look, Sammy," he started, moving slowly towards him. "I'm sorry I left before. You just freaked me out with the college stuff, ya know?"

There was no response, Dean thought now that this might end up being more difficult than he'd anticipated.

He chuckled nervously, "Hell, I thought if you were gonna start going to college without telling me, it'd at least be at Harvard. Have you ever gone by Harvard? It's a couple miles from here..." Sam didn't so much as flinch. "We should go. You can sit in on some of their classes illegally. All the education without the twenty-five thousand dollar bill."

A few seconds later found them in the exact same position, Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair with exasperation. "Come on, Sammy, ya gotta at least look at me. Don't forget, you're the one who's been lying and..."

He trailed off as he took the few steps still separating him and his brother. He was directly behind Sam and he could now hear the younger boy's shallow breathing.

"Sammy?" His voice was cracked slightly as he said a quick prayer to whoever might be listening - he thought sometimes his mom - asking that his baby brother be okay.

Sam finally turned to face him. The paleness of his skin took Dean's breath away and as he reached out - almost subconsciously - to grasp his shoulder, he noted the shaking. "Sam!" This time it was frantic, and there was still no reaction. He took a deep breath, steadying his nerves. "Hey, Buddy," he tried to shift to calm, breathing levelly, but raw emotion was bubbling below the surface. "Come on, what's the matter?"

When there was still absolutely no reaction, he grabbed his other shoulder with more fierceness. He tried to keep his grip gentle, he really did, but he was so scared now. Sam's whole body jerked slightly with Dean's movement.

And only then did the elder see the phone dangling limply from Sam's left hand.

"Sam?" He said in a breath.

"I..." he looked up, confused, and Dean urged him on silently by meeting his eyes and widening his own slightly. "I...I didn't think anyone knew our number here."

"Who called, Sammy?" He demanded steadily, a million and one different scenarios running through his mind.

"...dad..." he finally managed.

Dean's eyes flashed dangerously, "Dad called?"

Sam shook his head immediately, eyes darting back and forth over Dean's. "Dad... Some woman called...dad..."

"Dad _what_?" Dean snapped, frantic.

"He's dead."

TBC…


	12. Just a world that we all must share

Title: On The Turning Away

Author: Oldach's Dream

Summary: Dean would do anything to keep his little brother safe and healthy. He would provide for him, no matter what the cost. They didn't need their father. Not today, not ever. AU, what if they'd had Max's childhood? Angst and Smarm.

Disclaimer: Don't own a thing.

Rating: T

A/N: This chapter is actually a two-parter. The second half is a stand-alone and will be posted in a few days - computer willing. It'll explain exactly how I'm keeping the story of Mary's death the same without having the boys involved in the paranormal at all.

Chapter Twelve: Just a world that we all must share

_Previously:_

_Sam shook his head immediately, eyes darting back and forth over Dean's. "Dad... Some woman called...dad..."_

"_Dad _what_?" Dean snapped, frantic._

"_He's dead."_

_

* * *

_

Countless minutes, or possibly hours, maybe decades, but probably just seconds later, Dean finally had a response to his little brother's mumbled words. "Huh?"

"Yeah..." Sam finally set down the phone, looking at it sitting on the counter unmoving and lifeless, as of he had just lost a lifeline. "This woman... Missouri...she's an... A..."

"Old friend of mom's." Dean filled in, registering the irony of that somewhere in the back of his muddled mind. He'd been thinking of her, his family's past with her, just minutes ago. Minutes...everything changed in the blink of an eye. Everything had just changed.

"Yeah..." Sam repeated. "She called..."

Both brothers were in various forms of shock - Dean was grasping desperately in his mind for something to make this real, anything to tell him that he wasn't dreaming or hallucinating. To him, life just couldn't change that fast, there had to be a reason, an explanation. Something to make this...less unbelievable.

Sam seemed more spacey, repeating himself; he had a far away look in his eyes that would have worried Dean, had the elder brother not known he was sporting a remarkably similar gaze.

"Sammy...?"

It took the younger boy a moment, but he looked up eventually, eyes questioning beneath the lost expression.

Dean swallowed and asked the only thing he could think to ask, the only thing that might return them to some sort of reality. "How...how'd he die?"

* * *

Sam kept his eyes firmly plastered on the highway outside his window. He watched as a steady downpour of rain slicked the road, causing puddles in various locations, splattering all around them.

He thought maybe the rain was trying to tell him something - attempting to aid the current war he was fighting with his emotions. Rain was dreary and sad, and perhaps that's what he should be feeling right now. Dreary and sad.

As it was, Sam couldn't get a good hold on anything he was feeling. It's like his whole soul had become a sucking void ever since Missouri's phone call, and all that was really left were a bunch of thoughts.

Fragment sentences morphed into wayward daydreams, fears turned to reality in his overactive imagination, life decided, then refuted then challenged again; just to have them end up exactly where they started. Or perhaps a million miles down the road at identical crossroads. It was impossible to tell.

"Car still runs good." His big brother had this thing with silence, Sam had to remind himself - he didn't like it, wasn't fond of it, and avoided it as much as possible. Especially when there was something this big hanging over their heads making this much noise.

"Yeah," Sam agreed, because what else was there to do? "Considering its been sitting on cinder blocks for almost six months."

"Did you expect me to sell it or something?" Dean asked ludicrously, sounding less unsure and more like Sammy's big brother -the one who avoided conflict like the plague and could fix almost anything with the proper dose of humor. "This thing's my baby."

"You have a complex." Sam informed him. "Unnatural attachment to inanimate objects."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," the elder scoffed, mock-offended. "At least she gets us around."

"You know," Sam argued. "With all the money you're gonna end up putting into this thing, you could probably buy a new car."

"Are you saying she's a handful?" Dean patted the dashboard lovingly, as if telling her to ignore Sam's comments.

"It's just a fact," Sam shrugged. "Older cars need a lot of work."

"You need a lot of work," he mumbled, before adding more clearly, "Besides, even if it does take some elbow grease, it's worth it - they don't make 'em like this anymore."

"For good reason," Sam agreed.

"What do you have against classic cars?" Dean demanded, sounding put out, as if Sam had just violated some sort of ancient taboo.

"They eat up too much gas," he said immediately.

"What do you know?" He grumbled, keeping his eyes on the passing freeway, but shooting quick glances at the younger teen every now and then.

"I know gas is expensive."

"Not as expensive as getting a new car." His older brother defended immediately, and Sam finally gave in.

"Fine," he held his hands up. "You win. Keep the Impala forever, see if I care."

"Damn straight." He declared.

Moments following, both seemed a little lost as to where to go from there. Sam regretted his decision to give in to his brother. Bickering with Dean may not be his favorite pass time, but it sure as hell beat staring out the window and letting his thoughts run rapid.

"How much longer 'till we get to Kansas?" Sam asked before he could think about it. The question popped into his mind and he regretted asking it before it was even all the way out of his mouth.

Dean gripped his hands tighter around the wheel and focused his gaze straight ahead. Sam wanted to know what he was thinking now, what emotions he was experiencing. Because perhaps if Dean told him what he should be feeling, Sam would _stop _feeling so damned lost.

Yet all his older brother did was clear his throat and speak tightly. "A few more hours. We'll make it there by... Tomorrow morning."

Neither even considered stopping for the night at a passing motel, or even pulling to the side of the road and sleeping in the car. Sam couldn't fathom going to sleep at all, and he doubted his brother's nerves would allow it for him either.

So Sam nodded, and Dean took that as incentive to reach into the backseat with one hand and pull forth a tape out of the massive collection of them he had stored back there - not looking at his brother at all. Sam watched as Dean popped in the cassette and pressed play without taking his eyes away from the road once.

As Led Zeppelin filtered through the sound system, Sam took a deep breath; finally fully relaxing into the large leather seat of his brother's most prized possession, cracking the window and closing his eyes briefly; enjoying the feel of cool, rain-splattered wind against his face.

For now, he decided, talking wasn't necessary.

* * *

Dean exited the car first, turning to his little brother through the open window and shooting him a stern look. "Stay here for a couple minutes, alright? I wanna talk to her."

"Why? You don't trust her?" There was something in his voice that Dean couldn't place exactly, but he thought sounded a little like exasperation.

"I don't know yet, Sammy." He admitted. "Can you just stay put?"

He shrugged sullenly. "Sure."

Dean looked at him a moment longer, but all the younger boy did to make his annoyance known was to wave to Dean impatiently, gesturing towards Missouri's house. Taking a deep breath, he patted the side of the Impala's door and turned away reluctantly.

He walked slowly up the concrete path that led to the front door of the home of the woman he hadn't seen since he'd been a child. The _last _day he'd truly been a child, if one really wanted to get into specifics - but Dean knew now wasn't the time for self-pity or illogical emotions.

He had things to take care of. Their father's death was...unexpected. And unexpected was the only accurate descriptive word he could come up with. It wasn't tragic - not after everything John Winchester had put them through. Yet it wasn't exactly a joyous occasion. It had raised too many thoughts, questions, decisions to be made.

Even in his death, their father managed to make things complicated.

Dean made it to the front door and reached a hand out to ring the doorbell, only to pause with his arm in the air and turn back to the car, a natural and un-thought about show of protection. He caught the profile of his little brother's face, and he saw the emotions there. The confusion.

Gritting his teeth, he turned back around and pressed the bell with a little more force than necessary.

Even in death, their father caused pain

* * *

"Dean Winchester," the black woman sighed at the man in question - who was sitting stiffly on her living room sofa - she looked somewhat lost. Her eyes were a little unfocused, and she kept staring at him. Dean thought, perhaps she was on drugs. It was the only logical way he could explain away the woman's odd behavior.

"Yeah, I know my name." He finally snapped. It wasn't the first time she'd said it. She seemed, in fact, completely entranced by the teen, and it was beginning to make Dean incredibly uncomfortable. "What's the matter with you?"

"I just can't believe you're finally here." She spoke honestly. Dean believed the words, but didn't want to succumb to the compassion laced behind them.

"Did you forget _why _I'm here?" He was suddenly, and without real reason, beyond irritation. He was pissed. Laughing humorlessly, he began to rant, wanting answers, needing answers. "What aren't you telling us? How did you know how to find us? How did you know our mom? You say you were a family friend, but why didn't you ever call? Did you _know _what our dad was like? Did you _choose _to let us stay with him? Could you have stooped it? Are you going to call the police? Come on, tell me something!"

He was on his feet now, watching as the older woman looked at him steadily, seeing him, but not really paying attention. Dean could see in her eyes that she was somewhere else, thinking about something else - a different time.

He wanted to snap at her again, physically shake her to get an answer out of her. He restrained himself only because the look in her eyes wasn't a threatening one. And if he told himself the truth, he knew it wasn't one caused by the influence of drugs either. She was remembering.

"Your mom and me..." she finally spoke, some of that that faraway thing in her eyes now present in her voice, "We were...real close. Good friends."

Her eyes glossed over again, and this time Dean didn't say anything simply because he couldn't. Emotions were welling up in him. It had been so long since he'd spoken to anyone, save his little brother, about his mom. And as much as he loved Sammy, and he would die protecting the boy - it simply wasn't the same. To hear someone who actually remembered Mary Winchester talk about her - someone who wasn't a bitter, resentful, abusive father - this was something he'd never experienced.

His heart leapt when Missouri spoke again.

"Mary was a person you just wanted to be around," Dean held his breath and looked at the woman with wide eyes he couldn't control. "She had an amazing spirit."

Lost moments later, Dean forced himself to refocus on the context of the situation. He wasn't here to chat about his mother. The mom he'd lost nearly fourteen years ago. He was here because this woman had called and said he didn't have a choice in the matter. Said he and his brother needed closure.

"That doesn't answer my questions," His voice was shakier than he would have liked, but it got Missouri's eyes to drift back towards him. "How'd you know how to find us?"

She smiled at him then, a sad smile that said so many things, none of which he could get a solid hold on. There was something about this woman...Dean couldn't put his finger on it, but he didn't trust her. Something told him she wasn't a real threat - he knew she wouldn't betray them.

But that feeling didn't mix well with the reality he'd seen in his life. It didn't mix with the drug deals gone wrong and the entire truth of that matter that had been hidden from him for years. It certainly didn't mix with who their father was - his past with his parents. The two people every kid is supposed to be able to depend on without question. Both had left him and his brother alone.

Dean didn't blame his mom in the slightest for her death, he knew that the flames took her, and she died protecting her son; but their father's continuous betrayals after her death just cut too deep to ever be forgotten.

The reality Dean had faced throughout his eighteen years of life so far had made distrust his default setting.

He heard the door open then, and he snapped his head around, thinking immediately that his distrust was proven accurate, and someone from child services was there to take them away. He heart was beating rapidly and already he had an escape plan half-formulated.

Then he recognized his brother's hesitant footsteps, the way he paused ever so slightly when he stepped on a creaky floorboard. He released the breath he hadn't even been aware he was holding and waited for Sammy to appear at his side. He'd obviously had enough of waiting in the Impala.

"Dean?"

He was going to respond to his little brother's questioning voice, but Missouri beat him to it.

"Sam Winchester," she breathed sounding more taken aback with his brother's presence than she had been with Dean's "I haven't seen you since you were a tiny, little baby."

"Missouri?" He questioned hesitantly, and Dean could hear the reluctant trust in his voice.

"That's right, son." She smiled genuinely, and Dean still couldn't curb his own distrust, the protective instincts he had towards Sammy that would never quell.

Still, he said nothing, he just watched as Missouri smiled widely, portraying emotions that were clearly an attempt at lightheartedness. The lightheadedness was there, and genuine, but also tainted. John Winchester tainted everything.

"Sam, Dean," She said again, shaking her head affectionately. "Welcome home."

Dean couldn't hold back a snort, and ironically enough, that seemed to finally snap the woman out of her hypnotic, Zen-like state. "Don't scoff," she said sternly. "Kansas is always gonna be home."

He opened his mouth to respond; he could already taste the bitterness of the comment he had prepared on the tip of his tongue, but a small tug on the sleeve of his shirt stopped him. He turned towards his brother, all traces of anger gone in the instant it took him to swivel his head.

"She's got a point, Dean." Sammy smiled, the first genuine smile he'd seen on his little brother's face in a long time. "Lawrence _will _always be our home."

Sam's slight amendment caused a big ball of something uncomfortable to well up in the elder brother's throat, as he finally caught sight of the truth in the words. Lawrence, he thought, nodding absently.

Maybe their father's death had caused something other than pain after all.

* * *

TBC...

Thoughts on this chapter would be great!


	13. Stand Alone

Stand Alone: What Missouri knows 

Crossroads

Missouri Mosley was a powerful seer. She had abilities that had been passed down to her from generations worth of ancestors, and she knew better than to think she had an ultimate goal in the over all planbeyond harboring these gifts - adding her personal strength to them - and passing them on until they arrived at their final destination.

She didn't know much about it, that final plan, the grand design, she knew only that by the time it graced this earth, she would be a long lost ancestor herself. A folklore that young children gathered around to hear. Her place in destiny was not something new to her; she'd known it since she'd been a small child. Accepted it without complaint. Believed it as a truth for decades.

She knew also that while she was here, as a way to strengthen her powers and secure her place in the role of family legend, she was to use her abilities to help others. And she'd done so with a flourish her entire life. Missouri, unlike her family before her, was allowed to use her practice as a way to make a living - she didn't have to hide it, thus it was her soul focus in this world. That, she knew, made her more powerful - and cockier - than a generation of family before her.

Never, however, had she even imagined herself tangling forces with one of the greatest legends to ever walk the earth. Many children from her family dreamt of doing something monumental, something that would change the supernatural world as they knew it.

Few did.

Missouri Mosley was one of those few.

"What aren't you telling us? How did you know how to find us? How did you know our mom? You say you were a family friend, but why didn't you ever call? Did you _know _what our dad was like? Did you _choose _to let us stay with him? Could you have stopped it? Are you going to call the police? Come on, tell me something!"

Missouri heard the words like a distant background hum. She understood them perfectly, but all she could really comprehend from them was Mary. Mary's son was speaking to her, demanding things of her.

The Winchester brothers were here at last.

She knew what this meant. She'd known years and years ago. Only she didn't have an answer then, and when she did, she had stayed away. That was her role in all this. Only now she had the chance to change it, she could change destiny, and nothing gave one a greater feeling of power than that.

There was a fork in the road, a new decision to make, logic told her. The Winchester brothers were standing at a crossroads, and she could change it all. All she had to do was look into his eyes, and the psychic saw it all.

She had been told of the Winchesters long ago. Of course, the name hadn't been prominent, nor the specifics of their lives. But her entire family - and every other prominent psychic family in the world - knew the prophesy of the hunters. The two men, linked together by grief, tragedy and blood, destined to rid the world of evil things.

Not all evil things, for it was well known that that was impossible, but in their lifetime, there would be a war. A monumental war that they were destined to win, that would change the course of humanity. Missouri had been told as a child, when she'd first been taught to harness her skills, that, should she ever come across these men, this family of warriors, she would know it instantly. And she had.

Years ago when John and Mary Winchester had first moved to Lawrence, Kansas to begin raising their family. Dean had been a mere six months old when his mother had stumbled across her small shop and asked politely for a reading. With no appointment, she was ready and willing to accept a no and be on her way. And Missouri had been ready to give it t her.

Until she turned her head and looked into her eyes. She saw in the depths of her hazel orbs an entire world staring back at her. In one moment she saw everything, felt it all. The past, the present, the future. Mary's baby boy, her unborn son. How she needed to have both of them, how they would complete each other. She saw them changing the world. She saw their own world being torn apart, felt fear and grief that had yet to be experienced. She saw death. Heard the crackle of the flames. The shouting, the need, the hurt.

It had overwhelmed her then, and she'd been forced to sit down, if only to stop herself from passing out. She'd seen a lifetime in those eyes. And she saw again in her eldest son's.

"Your mom and me..." she smiled gently now at the distraught boy, "We were...real close. Good friends."

_"What's the matter?" Mary had asked, concerned. "Did something bad happen?"_

Missouri had seen two paths then. They were unfocused, and she could make out nothing beyond their existence.

_"I'm fine," the psychic had lied. For her head was swimming and destiny - fate - was knocking at her door. "I see many things in your future." _

She had told Mary then of her sons and the monumental bond they'd be destined to share. She left out all things of the supernatural. Of her impending death. As much as she wanted to, the psychic could do nothing to reverse that aspect of fate.

Perhaps she had made a mistake by befriending her young clientele, but she had never seen it that way.

"Mary was a person you just wanted to be around," she didn't realize at first that she was speaking aloud - then she saw Dean's eyes. "She had an amazing spirit."

The more time she'd spent with the young mother, the more clear the two paths became. Missouri had learned to identify their basic meaning the day of the fire. She'd been sleeping that night, as peaceful as could be, when something roused her.

A gust of wind, a soft whisper, and she was sitting up in bed, breathing sporadic, looking around for the source of her sudden onslaught of feelings. She'd seen Mary immediately. Standing at the foot of her bed, her body radiating a certain glow, a warmth that could only be with someone after death.

She looked peaceful, Missouri remembered, clad in a flowing white gown, gorgeous blond hair surrounding her. She was entrusting her with her son's well-being. That was the feeling most prominently radiating from her. Trust.

She lifted a transparent hand just before she disappeared, and then, finally, Missouri saw the two paths clearly. As Mary faded, the world in her eyes had been released. It was rapidly disapating, Missouri could feel, but she was powerful enough to see it before it was gone.

Two paths, clearly laid out by destiny, for Sam and Dean Winchester. Two paths...and only one could be traveled.

When Missouri was a child, a young adult, her entire life before she'd seen Mary Winchester that first time, she'd believed that she would never have a specifically important role in the grand design. She was prepared to be that distant legend, to add that strength. Yet what she saw that night would change everything. Forever.

"That doesn't answer my questions," Dean's voice was shaky, and Missouri focused on him. "How'd you know how to find us?"

Two paths, she saw, clearly laid out. So simple to follow.

One told a story of two brothers who would become legends. With the help of their father, they would spend years hunting, raking in countless losses and immeasurable victories. Their dad would dwindle out of existence eventually, and it would be just the two of them. Against the world. And they would fight the war that would change everything. And they would win.

This path was a steady road of things that were never cold, yet always lacked warmth. On this path, they would find comfort in each other, without question, yet they would also find a certain security in death and destruction. To know that everything would eventually fall apart would be a motivating and driving factor. Dark comfort, Missouri shuddered when she thought of this, yet it was their destiny.

One of them.

The other told a story of two brothers who would become a family. With the help of no one, they would spend years protecting each other from one, very mortal, threat. They would fight, learn, breathe, and stand on their own - of this, Destiny was sure. They would face real evil, and find mortal comfort in its downfall. They would know not of supernatural beings.

This path held an unsteady road of dead and cold things. Of hurts to overcome and helplessness to fight - though, this road, if followed all the way through, would blossom into, figuratively, a warm summer day. Showers to be expected, yet easily overcome. There would be no comfort in death. Only each other. And while few could walk this path and come out victorious, Missouri Mosley knew the Winchester brothers could.

Not because she was a powerful seer with generations of her family's powers to dip into, but because this was the path that Mary Winchester had pointed to the day she died.

This was the destiny her son's would follow.

"Dean?" She heard the questioning voice, and her sight was taken immediately away from the visions, the memories in her mind, she snapped back to the present. Glancing to the left slightly, she saw Mary's eyes.

"Sam Winchester," she breathed, before the elder brother had a chance to respond. She could practically see the distrust wafting off the older man, but she ignored it. Knew it would fade with time. "I haven't seen you since you were a tiny, little baby."

Sam eyed her curiously. Not distrusting, like his brother but with something akin to remembrance. Had they followed the first path, she knew, this boy would have powerful abilities. Ones that would rival her own, with no generations of power to dip into. This boy could be a seer, had that been his destiny.

Missouri saw now that she couldn't change a thing. Their destiny was decided long ago, and to rip them off their already half-traveled path now would be the same as killing them, murdering them in cold blood. No, fate was already in motion. Just as Mary had wanted it.

"Missouri?" He questioned hesitantly, and the psychic could read his emotions so easily. He didn't want to trust her, but he knew in his heart that he could. Sam would always have a strong emotional current running through his veins. In later years, his psychic abilities might even physically manifest themselves.

It was a possibility, but something she hoped he'd never have to deal with.

"That's right, son." She smiled genuinely, feeling a deep connection to this boy. She was connected to them both, destined to be in their lives from here on out. But Sam, she felt, would always be easier to bond with.

Dean was too protective of his little brother. His trust would take years to earn. Years she was willing to wait. She knew that's what Mary had wanted.

She smiled at them both, knowing it was inappropriate, given their circumstances, yet also knowing the boys would appreciate the lightheartedness of it. Not many knew of John Winchester's true personality. It was a shame too, because he had such promising potential. Had he been different, in fact, destiny itself could have altered and brought the boy's a different fate.

"Sam, Dean," She said again, shaking her head affectionately. "Welcome home."

TBC...

Regularly scheduled fic to continue soon. Thoughts?


	14. On the wings of the night

Title: On The Turning Away

Author: Oldach's Dream

Summary: Dean would do anything to keep his little brother safe and healthy. He would provide for him, no matter what the cost. They didn't need their father. Not today, not ever. AU, what if they'd had Max's childhood. Angst and smarm.

Disclaimer: Don't own a thing.

Rating: T

A/N: I am so, so _sooooo_ sorry that it's taken me this long to update this fic. And I wouldn't even be surprised if no one was reading this anymore. I just got such major writer's block when it came to this plot line. And honestly, I'm only forcing myself to get this out now because I want to kinda tie up all my loose end stories before I start posting this new project of mine; so again, I'm sorry if this isn't as great as it could be. I really, really tried to get back in the swing of it. Really.

Well, Read on, if you're interested…

* * *

Previously: 

Dean was too protective of his little brother. His trust would take years to earn. Years she was willing to wait. She knew that's what Mary had wanted.

She smiled at them both, knowing it was inappropriate, given their circumstances, yet also sure the boys would appreciate the lightheartedness of it.

Not many knew of John Winchester's true personality. It was a shame too, because he had such promising potential. Had he been different, in fact, destiny itself could have altered and brought the boy's a different fate.

"Sam, Dean," She said again, shaking her head affectionately. "Welcome home."

* * *

Chapter Thirteen: On the wings of the night

"Dean?" Sam questioned in a half-whisper that night, knowing his brother wasn't asleep but not wanting to startle him, sure he was lost in his own thoughts.

"Yeah, Sammy?" The elder man responded almost immediately, turning his head slightly in the direction of Sam's bed. The two had agreed to - or rather, Sam had talked his big brother into - staying at Missouri's house for a while.

"Do you think about it?" He was lying on one of the two mattresses that had been shoved into the small guest bedroom, hands folded behind his head, studying the ceiling. "Why dad did it, I mean?" As if that hadn't been obvious.

"Not really," Dean shrugged, and even though Sam couldn't see his facial expressions, he could read the older man like an open book.

"Liar." He said it accusingly, but in a tone that he hoped would convey the message, _this isn't over. Not even close. _

"Of course I think about it, Sam." Dean sighed. "I've been thinking about I for the last two weeks. But it doesn't really matter, does it?"

The fourteen-year-old sighed heavily, accepting his brother's logic momentarily, before voicing his own thoughts. "I know, you're right. It doesn't. but still… what do you think he was thinking about?"

"I…" Dean sounded at first like he was going to object to the morbid line of questioning, but changed his mind. Sam guessed that his thoughts had been in the exact same place. "I think he was too high, too drunk, to really be thinking at all." The words were only slightly bitter, and the younger boy didn't doubt their truth.

"He killed himself." Sam knew it wasn't the first time he'd heard the words aloud. He was, however, fairly certain it was the first time he'd said them aloud himself since that night Missouri had called.

Dean's knee-jerk head spin was all the confirmation he needed. "Sammy…"

"What?" Sam pressed when his brother didn't go on. "He did."

"Get some sleep, would ya, kiddo?"

"I just…I can't stop thinking about it," he ignored Dean's pleading, didn't even register it until several minutes after the fact. "Was he thinking about us? All the bad stuff he did to us? Where we were? Did he even know we'd been gone?"

"Sammy…"

"Or was he thinking about mom? The way things used to be before she died?"

"I don't know, Sam." It would amaze the younger sibling, later when he looked back on it, how Dean managed to keep his tone so calm, his voice that level. It was as if all his own thoughts, fears, plaguing nightmarish _what ifs _just disappeared whenever Sam's threatened to take over. "We'll never know, okay?"

"But I can't-"

"Sam," Dean spoke firmly, Sam listened grudgingly. "You've got to let it go. Obsessing about this…it's gonna kill you, kiddo. It's gonna _kill you._"

Sam finally let out a deep breath, admitting at last that perhaps his brother was right; that this obsession was pointless. And dangerous. "Yeah," he hoped his thoughts were conveyed accurately through his words. "Sorry."

They were silent after that, each debating the merit of starting another conversation. They'd been having half-conversations like this the entire time they'd been back in Kansas; each too tired to get into anything more emotionally trying. But too scared to let the topic simply rest.

Then, just had happened on nights previous, as they were deciding whether or not to keep talking, they unwillingly slipped into some off kilter form of rest. Where sleep would come in reluctant little bouts, but exhaustion was too great to have them up and about.

And, just had happened nearly every night, one of the brothers would wake from one of their unconscious periods, too vulnerable to go back to sleep alone; they would stumble out of their own bed- forever glad that their mother's old friend had squeezed two singles into that tiny room- and fall ungracefully onto the other.

The brother in that bed would grunt, but move over accordingly, allowing room for the second person and the second blanket. As the one who invaded the bed in the middle of the night always brought along their own covers and collapsed on top of the ones already in use. Neither would really want it any other way; they weren't little kids anymore, after all, and some things were just awkward.

Yet sharing a bed like that, with that level of comfort and security, knowing it was always there for the taking…well, that they would never grow out of.

They'd never want to.

* * *

Another week passed, and nothing changed. 

"They put dad next to mom." Dean said it out loud to Sam, who was sitting at Missouri's old, wooden kitchen table, reading something thick and probably beyond the elder's comprehension.

"Yeah," Sam didn't look up. "I figured they would."

_They_ was actually just Missouri, but talking about it like this made it easier somehow.

"Sammy…" but he let it trail off, and when his little brother looked up, he just shook his head and went back outside to tinker some more with the Impala.

* * *

Sam's fifteenth birthday had come and gone. 

The leaves had started to change colors and began to flutter peacefully to the ground.

They'd been there a month and a half.

"Dean," Sam approached his big brother, who was sitting on Missouri's back porch staring at the flat expanse of Kansas backyard.

The elder man looked at him as soon as he spoke his name, and whatever emotions had been playing over his features before Sam's arrival were now well-hidden.

"What are you doing up?" Dean tried to distract him. It was early, early morning, but Sam simply ignored the question, seeing it as the pointless diversion that it was.

The younger boy felt guilty for what he was about to say, but he knew without question that it needed to be said. Knew that he would always be able to be honest with Dean; and that, even if they fought about it, his brother would be much angrier if he kept things from him.

"I don't want to go back to Boston." The words came out rushed and strung together. He cringed in anticipation.

When Dean didn't say anything for a few long moments, Sam risked a glance in his direction. The older man wasn't looking at him angrily or disbelievingly. In fact, his gaze had drifted back out to the yard.

"Yeah," he whispered hoarsely. "I figured."

Then there was silence.

"What are we gonna do?" When Sam could bare the absence of conversation no more.

"I can't stay here." There might - _might_ - have been an ounce of regret in his words.

Sam knew exactly what his brother was referring to. "No on suspects you," he knew Dean hated talking about this, but felt that right now it was necessary. "What happened to Chance… It wasn't your fault. And no one thinks you had anything to do with it."

Dean let out a deep breath after a couple silent seconds. "Yeah, maybe."

"Man," Sam sighed as well. This wasn't something he was overly used to - having to comfort Dean. It had always been the other way around, and the younger boy could count on one had the number of times it had been reversed over the course of their lives.

Sam knew Dean needed this though, and hell, he owed it to him. "You've got to stop blaming yourself for this."

He moved and took a seat next to where his brother was perched on the thick porch railing. "The guy who _shot _him; Alan; it's their fault he's dead. Not yours."

"I coulda done something." Never had these words been spoken aloud, yet Sam wasn't surprised by the depth of their meaning. Dean had spent the entirety of his life protecting his baby brother, and Sam wasn't naïve enough to think that that hadn't shaped and molded who his brother was to the outside world. Wasn't surprised that Dean tried to save everyone.

"If you had, you might have been the one that ended up dead that night."

That night.

Sam would never forget that night. It had been frightening, to see his big brother that vulnerable, that detached. Yet in a way- and mind you, Sam hadn't realized this until many years after the fact - that night had installed a sense of equality between the two that hadn't really ever been present before.

Sam had learned that he could hold Dean up, as much as his big brother had always supported him. And while it was a job he could never handle full-time - would never want to have to handle full-time - it had made the younger man aware of a certain strength within himself. One that he was dipping into right now.

"Not-"

"Dean," Sam interrupted. "I wish that night had never happened. We both do." He said it factually and the older man absentmindedly nodded his agreement. "But it did. And…and I'm glad it happened the way it did. Because you're not dead. And…"

"And I'm not dealing drugs anymore?" He finished, just a tinge of harshness in the guess.

"Yeah," Sam admitted easily. "It used to scare me." He wouldn't meet Dean's gaze, keeping his own eyes focused on the sky, watching as the sun started to rise. "When you would go out. I knew what you were doing, but, man…I was so young. I didn't really…_get_ it. Not until I was older, and then it was just so normal…"

"So basically I've screwed you up for life?" The anger was probably directed at himself, but Sam couldn't tell for sure.

"No," he shook his head. "I'm just saying…"

"What?" Dean snapped when Sam couldn't continue. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying; it happened." He spoke firmly. "And can't we just put it behind us?"

"It's not that easy." His tone was more level, but still distant, cold.

"Why?" Sam spat. "And don't say anything about cops or an investigation," he warned. "Because you know you were never a suspect. And the investigation's over now. You just used that as an excuse to get us away from here."

"I got us _away_ from here because of _dad_." Dean's temper flared.

"Well dad's gone." Sam argued angrily. "So what's your excuse now?"

"You don't understand, Sammy." Dean shook his head, set his jaw and looked away.

"Make me." The younger man demanded. "Make me understand, Dean."

His big brother just shot him an indescribable look, before removing himself from where he'd been seated and making his way across the large porch and back into the house.

He didn't look back.

Sam watched him walk away.

He didn't try to stop him.

* * *

TBC…

A/N: I promise if anyone still wants me to continue, it won't be too, too long before the next update.


	15. In the dream of the proud

Chapter Fourteen: In the dream of the proud

Only his name was chiseled in the stone

No platitudes. No, 'He will be missed' or 'Beloved father.' Just 'John Winchester' carved into the slate gray headstone. It looked barren and out of place next to his mom's, which was surrounded by lively looking flowers, and was obviously well-cared for.

Missouri probably did that, Dean reasoned. She probably did everything.

"Burying your mom was hard." As if his thoughts had conjured the older woman, Dean looked up from where he was sitting, leaning against the side of his father's grave, to see her looming above him. He hadn't noticed her approaching.

He was going to say something, but after waiting a long while and coming up with no appropriate words, he just nodded his agreement.

He was sure it would have been hard - burying Mary. Watching her go under ground forever. He world have hated to see that; but thought too that, in a way, it would have brought a final sense of peace to him - at least maybe. Too bad John had had them far, far away before he'd had to deal with that.

He'd left his sons with no sense of closure.

He watched Missouri lower herself onto the ground next to him, and absently appreciated that she would sit on the ice-cold ground with him.

"Your life's not been easy." She said bluntly, and Dean snorted, too tired to react any differently. "For you, it's always one thing after the other."

The eldest Winchester gauged his feelings and shrugged. He'd always been inadequate at expressing emotion.

"You wish you'd had a different life." She stated, again telling him how he felt. It was a habit of hers, one that Dean knew he'd find ungodly irritating on almost anyone else.

"Sometimes." Dean admitted, not sure yet if he trusted this woman, this old friend of his mother's, entirely, but knowing too that lying to her would be pointless and painful.

Something occurred to him as she considered her next words and Dean blurted, "Is Sam okay?"

She looked at him with raised eyebrows. "He's back at the house."

"He shouldn't be alone." He protested, knowing it was stupid; because he'd left his little brother alone for much longer stretches of time.

He regretted that now. Leaving Sam alone in that apartment in Boston. He could imagine the younger boy butting his head against the wall with boredom, and honestly, Dean was surprised it had taken him as long as it had to do something to alleviate the mind-numbing quality of it all.

"He's fine," Missouri soothed, and Dean wondered how he'd gotten away with staying in this incredibly inquisitive woman's house for almost two months without having been roped into a heart-to-heart conversation before now.

"I know you wanna leave." She surprised him by saying.

Dean bit the inside of his cheek. Hard.

"And I won't try to stop you. If that's what you think is best." Her voice conveyed that she obviously thought it wasn't, yet there was a reluctant acceptance there too. "If you wanna go back to Boston, that's fine with me."

Dean cast his eyes downward. "Sam wants to stay here."

She nodded like she already knew that, and Dean wondered for a moment if Sam hadn't confided in her. He really didn't think he had though, and the eldest brother again marveled this woman's tendency to seemingly know everything.

It was odd actually -borderline creepy - how well she could read everyone. Dean had the distinct impression that it was one of the qualities that had drawn his mother to her.

Dean couldn't recall much about his childhood before his mom was killed, didn't have the vivid, satisfying memories that he often wished he did; but he knew he remembered her as all-knowing. A private smile always on her face, like she had a secret- and she was just waiting until he was old enough to understand, so she could share it with him.

"Your mom was an amazing person." She seemed, again, to be able to read his thoughts.

"I know." He declared, more harshly than he'd intended. "I wish...I wish he'd died instead of her."

She let out a deep breath like she'd been expecting this, and Dean knew he was lashing out unfairly. "Son-"

"I'm not your son." He bit angrily. She didn't deserve this anger, but he didn't know what else to do with it. "I'm not your son. I'm not his son. I was hers, and she's gone. God-" He pulled up his knees to rest his elbows there, dropping his head in his hands dejectedly. "I hate this. I hate… not knowing what to do."

Dean also hated showing weakness in front of anyone, hated receiving pity, and hated trusting people. He honestly, truly believed that it was his job to be strong always. But something was happening to him now and he couldn't hold it in anymore.

"I hate that Sammy needs me and all I can do is fall apart and drag him across the country. I hate that I ruined his life. I put him in danger.. I…" He took a deep breath, trying uselessly to keep his tears at bay. "I could have died and he knows it. I didn't protect him good enough. She told me protect him. She told me to protect him all the time and I _didn't_."

"You were a child," Missouri said soothingly. "You are a child."

"No-" Dean protested. He'd been so many things over the course of his life - big brother, son, protector, criminal, accessory to murder, drug dealer, mechanic, construction worker, wanna-be fire fighter, liar, parent, provider, friend, and maybe even a kid - but Dean Winchester had never been a child. "No I'm not."

His companion let out a deep, soul-racking sigh. "No," she agreed. "Perhaps that's not the best way to phrase it."

Dean kept quiet, wiped at the tears that had tracked their way down his cheeks and swallowed the built-up lumps in his throat. This wasn't supposed to be happening. He didn't break down. He couldn't break down. Had only broken down once before ever - the night Chance died.

That had been such a horrible night. Chance had been his friend, no matter what'd been going on with Alan and his gang; Chance always existed separate from that, and Dean honestly missed that part of his old life.

That night he had come home feeling the weight of murder on his shoulders, and he had let go of sane and rational thought after that and self-destructed, not remembering anything past getting home and seeing Sam. Broken clips of recollections of the next few days marred his mind.

He could never get up the nerve to ask his little brother exactly how he'd behaved in that stretch of time that was so lost on him, he didn't think he could bare the answer. He knew though, after he'd told Sam the truth; that that's when he started pulling his old, half-bake plans of running away off the back-burner.

He'd told himself that the an investigation might bring unwanted attention to their situation. Reminded himself that there was always a possibility of John coming back and...picking up where he left off with their childhood. He told Sammy these things too, but his kid brother - the insightful little twit that he was - saw right through them.

Still, he went along with it. Dean was sure he had his own reasons for why - and he'd have to remember to get those someday - but this morning, Sam had called him on the truth.

They were just running.

"You..." Missouri had been studying him intently while he'd been silently rehashing his past, and Dean turned to her now. "You're gonna take care of that boy for the rest of your life." She sighed. "There 'aint no two ways about it."

"Yeah," the eighteen-year-old was more comforted by those simple, fact-stating words, than he thought he would be. Hearing them out loud seemed to solidify their standing in his life. "I know."

"Everything else is gonna come from that." She smiled, leaning over and touching his shoulder. "And if you wanna stay with me, in this town, I promise you, I'll make that easier for you. Both of you."

Dean didn't answer, just tilted his head back and studied the bleak sky. It was the same shade as the headstones all around them, and thick, billowing clouds that looked like they could open up and shower them with rain - or snow- any second now, loomed above them.

It was comforting.

* * *

"You've been gone for a while."

The brothers had stared at each other for a solid minute or so after Dean had walked into the living room where Sam had been seated, staring out the window up at the dreary sky.

"I went to dad's grave."

They were seated across from each other now, on the two couches in Missouri's living room that faced each other. The older woman had come back with Dean, looking chilled, but had retreated back out into the elements when she'd seen Sam sitting there and the looks that had passed between the two boys

Everyone knew a serious conversation was about to be had. And Sam liked the fact that Missouri had backed away from it, like she thought - or knew - that whatever it was they needed to discuss was their thing. A brother thing.

"Why?"

Dean took the question in stride, shrugging a shoulder slightly. Sam noticed his eyes were puffy and red. He knew it wasn't from the cold. "Just ended up there."

"It's weird that he's gone." Sam sat back but ran a hand through his hair. "After all these years."

"Yeah," his brother agreed, "It is."

"Is it wrong that we're not...more upset about it?" The younger - and much more moral - of the two couldn't help but contemplate.

"After what he did to us?" Dena shook his head. "No. No way."

Biting his lip, Sam had to agree; he placed his hands in his lap and couldn't help but notice the scar that still marred his left hand. The first day his father had ever hurt him physically. "I mean, it's not like I don't feel _anything. _Or that I'm _glad _about it. I'm just...sorta relieved."

"Me too, Sammy." Dean half smiled, half-grimaced. "Me too."

"So what did you and Missouri talk about?" He pulled his gaze away from the faded remnants of his past life and plowed through to face the future with a clear and undisrupted take on things.

"Oh, this and that." He waved a hand. "Mom, dad, you. Moving here." His tone was faux-casual and he kept his gaze steadily fixed on a small hole right above the knee in his worn jeans.

"Moving here?" Sam questioned, too dumbfounded to process quickly.

"Yeah," Dean nodded, glancing up for just moment to meet his eyes. He was sincere, Sam could tell that much. "I mean, we're pretty much living here anyway. She just said we could make it permanent. For as long as we want."

"How long would that be?" Sam couldn't help but let the fear bleed through. He hated the idea of going back to Boston, yet now that staying in Kansas was a real possibility, he wasn't sure that was such a good idea either.

The older man shrugged again, "Long as we need." He said. "'Til you go to college." He paused and looked up. "For real."

Sam grinned sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his neck. He had a feeling he'd never quite live that one down.

"Or until I get a real job and save up some money." He went on.

"Are you gonna go to college?" Sam wanted to know the truth, wanted to see if Dean was putting his life on hold for his brother once again.

The emphatic, "Hell no," threw him off a little and he looked up, disgruntled. "Sammy," Dean chuckled, "I could barely get through High School. I hated every damn day of it. You think I _want _to go back school?"

"College is a lot different from High School." Sam argued, basing his assessment on true life experience. It was odd, with how much he'd lived through already, it seemed only fitting that, at age fifteen he was already familiar with the complexities of higher education.

Dean just shook his head, "Are there books and big words?"

Sam rolled his eyes. He knew Dean was smarter than he appeared to be to most outsiders. Hell, Dean was smarter than he gave himself credit for. "Yeah."

"Then it's not for me." Dean spoke with a smirk playing on his features, yet there was an unmistakable seriousness in his tone and Sam knew he wasn't depriving himself. Maybe it was the structure or the predictability of a campus life, but Sam could no better picture his big brother in a college setting than he picture himself _not _in one.

"What about Boston?" Sam inquired, a thickness building in the back of his throat with every word. "Don't you want to go back?"

"I've been thinking about that." Dean told him, staring into space over Sam's shoulder. "And I don't think I really do."

"No?" He kept his tone purposely emotionless.

"No," he repeated. "I didn't really like it there. It was just a place to go that we could afford and where no one would care where we came from. I liked the construction job alright, but most of the guys there were drooling idiots."

No kidding, Sam agreed silently.

"And I don't wanna run anymore."

Those words struck a cord deep within Sam, and finally the two brother's met gazes for more than half a second.

"We weren't running," Sam protested weakly, not believing it.

"We were." Dean said calmly. "Just like dad."

Sam looked away, knowing it was the truth- and hating it. "Yeah," he choked. "So now what?"

"I'm not sure exactly." Dean admitted, "But for the first time in a long time, it feels like we're not drowning under something, you know? I don't know about you, but I'm not ready to let that go."

Sam shook his head, "I don't want to either."

"Good," Dean smiled, turning the silver ring on his finger. "Good." He stood up and took the necessary to allow him to plop down on Sam's couch. "Because I don't know where exactly we go from here, little brother."

"Me either," Sam shrugged, yet a lightness had settled around them, putting him more at ease than he could ever recall being.

"I do know one thing for sure, though." He sounded serious and Sam looked over, brow furrowing. "We're gonna need to get you some shiny red slippers."

"Huh?" Sam snorted deeply at the sheer peculiarity of the words.

"'Cause you know," Dean reached over and ruffled his hair affectionately, "There's no place like home."

* * *

TBC... 


	16. No more turning away

Chapter Fifteen: 

No more turning away

Three Years Later

In eighteen and twenty-two years respectively, the Winchester brothers have traveled the winding road of life. They've taken turns at the steering wheel, slept soundly in the passenger seat, played road map reader and backseat driver. They've depended on the other – always – to get them both where they needed to be. They've taken pit stops, gotten stalled and engaged in fights along the way.

Each has questioned, in his own time, if the path they were traveling was right for them. If this was the life they were destined for – if they even wanted it at all.

Simply glancing across the front seat of the Impala, however, answered easily these questions and put all doubts to rest, and they were soon discarded with a myriad of other things long since forgotten.

An easy life they defiantly had not had, simplicity forever absent from their mindsets – the Winchesters have survived in this world depending solely on each other, having been thrust into reality far before their destined time.

They would, without doubt, however, keep surviving, forever and always, as long as they had each other. Their worlds would expand, soon to include things such as college and girlfriends; a physical distance that had never been there before.

While these changes will be difficult to endure, they will only add to the lifetime of experiences that the brothers have already packed on; and it will make them stronger. As individuals, and as a family. Life was changing, moving forward at rapid rates that frightened and motivated.

The one thing that will remain forever constant, though, is the connection the Winchester brothers have developed through their life and times, the one that would keep developing until the end of time.

This was, after all, simply another beginning.

The End

A/N: Okay, so this chapter was much, much shorter than I'd originally imagined. But hell, this whole fic lasted about eight or nine months longer than I Thought it would when I started it... It was just begging to be completed.

I hope it wasn't a major disappointment, but, if you couldn't tell, I've been losing steam with this for a long while, and this is, in essence, was the way I wanted to wrap it up. And now that it's done, I can focus on my next uber-long story.

So, drop me a line and let me know what you thought? I've been batting about the idea of a one-shot sequel too, but that wouldn't happen for a while - and I'll only consider it seriously if anyone's actually interested.

And I guess that's it. Thanks for sticking around this long. I hope you enjoyed it more than I did. (Just kidding...sorta.)


End file.
